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BEACHED  KEELS 


BEACHED   KEELS 


BY 


HENRY  MILNER  RIDEOUT       fV'?7  ^ 


BOSTON  AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

(Cte  laitetj^tie  ^tt^^,  Cambritise 
1906 


COPYRIGHT  1906  BY  HKNRY  MILNSR  RIDKOUT 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  October  iqob 


V' 


^,0 


TO 
CHARLES  E.  SWAN,  M.  D. 


39?SS4 


CONTENTS 

I.  Blue  Peter 1 

II.   Wild  Justice 119 

III.   Captain  Christt 221 


I 

BLUE  PETER 


BLUE   PETER  •  '      v  ; 

I  i' '  ^      _     -:.._-  ^ 

"Yes,  it's  been  swum,"  puffed  the  boatman, 
tugging  till  the  ashen  thole-pins  creaked. 
"On'y  onct,  though,  an' — the  feller  was  a 
buster  —  that  done  it  —  back  in  '56." 

He  spat  over  the  gunwale,  so  that  a  brown 
stain  of  tobacco  swept  astern  on  the  heaving 
slant  of  the  green  wave.  Archer,  on  the  stern 
thwart,  turned  his  head  and  looked  back 
over  the  dazzling  water  at  the  mainland,  a 
dark  bank  of  rocks  and  low  hills,  with  a  few 
roofs  and  a  spire  against  the  late  afternoon 
sun. 

"He  must  have  been,"  he  answered.  The 
distance  to  the  American  shore  was  not  three 
miles,  but  the  water  was  an  arm  of  the  icy 
North  Atlantic,  and  the  tide  went  racing  out 
to  sea  through  the  passage. 

"Trim  the  bo't,  sir,"  rejoined  the  man  at 
the  oars,  in  a  tone  of  cheerful  Yankee  inde- 
pendence.    "It's  mortal  hard  puUin'  in  this 


4  BEACHED  KEELS 

sea,  an'  if  you  don't  keep  'er  headed  pooty 
sharp,  we  may  run  afoul  o'  the  South  Rocks, 
after  all."  .  . 

AicHerfaced  the  bow  again.  "All  right,"  he 
.3^d*:^4sity,*.  Tjie  last  two  years  had  taught 
him  to  value  an  honest  rebuke. 

The  boatman  screwed  his  lean  brown  face 
like  a  monkey,  as  he  blinked  at  the  sunlight 
following  them,  and  caught  the  high  waves 
deftly  with  his  short,  tough  oars.  Beyond 
him  and  the  pitching  bow.  Archer  saw  the 
tremendous  cliffs  of  the  island,  a  gunshot 
ahead,  towering  all  pink  and  ruddy  in  the 
sunlight.  A  few  gulls  wheeled  with  forlorn 
cries  along  the  face  of  the  crags.  Above,  on 
the  verge  against  the  sky,  a  clump  of  tiny 
trees  leaned  inland  as  if  tossed  by  a  gale. 
Years  of  ocean  storms  must  have  blown 
them  thus,  for  now  so  deep  an  autumnal 
calm  lay  over  sea  and  island  that  they  were 
startling  in  their  suggestion  of  wild  motion. 
It  was  like  a  freak  in  the  landscape  of  some 
forgetful  and  bungling  painter. 

For  an  instant  Archer  thought  he  saw  the 
figure  of  a  man,  crouched  and  furtive,  slink- 


BLUE  PETER  5 

ing  among  the  trees;  but  it  might  have  been 
the  gnarled  trunks  shifting  and  interweaving 
with  the  patches  of  sky  that  showed  through. 
And  the  next  instant  he  was  busy  with  the 
tiller-ropes.  The  boat  tossed  laboriously, 
dragging  as  if  uphill,  round  the  foot  of  the 
lofty  broken  columns  of  basalt,  where  the 
waves  tumbled  with  a  heavy  and  hollow 
noise  as  of  caves. 

"They  's  no  landin'  that  side  now,  ye  see," 
grunted  the  Yankee.  And  even  as  he  spoke, 
they  rounded  a  point  of  lifting  seaweed,  and 
ran  into  the  cool  shadows  of  the  eastward 
cliffs.  Here,  though  the  tide  was  still  against 
them,  they  rowed  more  easily,  in  almost  a 
calm.  Under  the  astounding  lee  of  the  cliffs 
there  fell  a  kind  of  instant  twilight,  a  melan- 
choly evening  stillness  and  dusk,  so  that 
Archer,  turning  his  eyes  from  this  dark  preci- 
pice that  overawed  their  cockleshell  boat, 
was  surprised  to  find  the  wide  ocean  still 
aglow,  and  the  tiny  sail  that  nicked  the  hori- 
zon still  white  in  the  sun.  This  island  was  a 
sombre  place,  thought  Archer,  for  an  adven- 
ture planned  so  boyishly. 


6  BEACHED  KEELS 

Northward  the  boat  labored,  sometimes 
making  a  long  circuit  where  a  weir  straggled 
into  the  sea,  sometimes  tossing  an  oar's  length 
from  the  giant  columns  and  boulders,  and 
always  without  a  sign  of  human  beings,  and 
always  preceded  by  the  ominous,  echoing 
cries  of  startled  sea  gulls. 

"Black  Harbor's  round  this  p'int,"  said 
the  boatman  at  last. 

At  the  point  the  cliffs  were  split  asunder 
into  a  mighty  cove,  across  the  mouth  of  which 
ran  a  bleak  sea  wall  higher  than  a  man's 
head,  —  all  of  gray  stones  as  round  as  cannon- 
balls,  —  wave-built,  impregnable,  Cyclopean 
masonry.  Through  a  gap  midway  in  this 
wall  the  boat  entered  Black  Harbor. 

Letting  her  run  in  the  still  water,  the  Yan- 
kee mopped  his  bald  forehead  and  grinned. 

"  Cheerful  sort  o'  place,  ain't  it  ?  "  he  asked. 
"Real  homelike  and  neighborly." 

It  was  a  place  where  Old- World  smugglers 
might  land  their  brandy  kegs,  or  where 
pirates  might  put  in  and  share  alike.  Instead 
of  these,  two  or  three  dismantled  sloops  and 
pinkies  lay  moored  in  a  half-  circle  of  dark 


BLUE  PETER  7 

water  still  as  a  mill  pond.  Archer  could 
barely  descry,  landward,  a  steep  black  gulch 
of  fir-tops  that  ran  widening  down  in  the 
darkness,  a  glacier  in  evergreen.  On  either 
side  jutted  a  headland,  both  wooded,  one 
scarred  with  landslides.  On  the  bar,  close 
astern,  a  solitary  figure  in  yellow  oilskins 
moved  along,  stooping  to  gather  up  wine- 
colored  rags  of  dulse  that  had  lain  drying  in 
the  brief  sunlight. 

To  him,  the  first  man  they  had  found  on 
this  sombre  island,  —  unless  the  furtive  sha- 
dow on  the  cliff  had  been  a  man,  —  Archer 
raised  his  hand  in  salute.  The  dulse-gatherer 
made  no  response,  but  stood  sullen  or  apa- 
thetic, watching  them  pull  shoreward. 

"  Go  to  thunder,  then,"  growled  the  Yan- 
kee under  his  breath.  After  a  few  strokes  he 
added,  "Won't  git  much  out  o'  these  fellers. 
Ye  better  not  try  a  night's  lodgin'  among 
them,  specially  if  you've  got  money  on  ye. 
or  man  Powell  might  put  ye  up.  He's 
queer,  they  say,  but  he  might.  I  would  n't 
ast  them.  I'm  a-goin'  to  sleep  in  this  bo't, 
an'  go  back  in  the  mornin'.     But  by  God- 


8  BEACHED  KEELS 

frey!"  he  broke  out  with  fervor,  "'fore 
bunkin'  in  with  that  crowd,  I'd  ruther  resk 
the  whirlpools  a-goin'  back  in  the  dark." 

"Listen,  though,"  said  Archer. 

The  boat  was  surrounded  by  the  darkness 
of  the  looming  headlands.  A  single  light 
from  the  shore  pierced  the  pool  deeply  before 
them,  a  long,  wavering  blade  of  brightness 
in  the  still  water.  The  silence  had  been  sud- 
denly broken  by  a  small,  sharp,  metallic 
voice  singing,  —  a  phonograph  squealing  out 
the  *' Handicap  March."  "We  've  got  money 
to  booyin!"  it  cried  nasally.  In  this  dark, 
forlorn  harbor  it  seemed  incredible.  Strange 
echo  of  cheap  New  York,  thought  Archer,  it 
told  that  rusticity  and  simple  merriment  were 
no  more. 

"They  seem  gay  enough,"  he  said  aloud. 
The  boatman,  however,  only  gave  a  skeptical 
grunt. 

On  the  beach,  where  the  good  salt  air  was 
lost  in  a  stink  of  fish,  the  two  men  parted,  — 
the  Yankee,  with  his  fee  in  his  pocket,  to  pull 
stolidly  out  of  this  harbor  which  he  hated; 
Archer,  to  go  scrambling  up  a  footpath  which, 


BLUE  PETER  9 

littered  with  broken  fish-flakes,  wound  up- 
ward among  a  few  unhghted,  silent,  and  mal- 
odorous huts.  In  one  of  these,  through  the 
open  door,  he  saw  men  and  boys  plying 
bloody  knives  by  lantern  light;  but  to  his 
'*  Good-evening  "  the  fishermen  replied  only 
with  churlish  stares.  Plainly,  it  was  an  inhos- 
pitable shore.  Even  the  phonograph  had 
ceased.  The  place  lay  stifled  in  such  a  pro- 
found silence  that  he  felt  the  oppression  of 
the  headlands  towering  in  the  dark.  Also 
he  felt  himself  an  ass  to  have  left  his  decent 
quarters  aboard  ship  in  the  mainland  town, 
for  the  childish  whim  of  visiting  an  island 
that  had  loomed  offshore  so  high  and  so 
romantic. 

Suddenly,  turning  the  corner  of  a  hut,  he 
halted  in  a  stream  of  lamplight  from  another 
open  door.  It  was  very  smoky  lamplight, 
and  there  was  a  powerful  smell  of  tobacco 
and  stale  beer.  On  the  doorstep  he  nearly 
fell  over  a  man  who  lay  sprawled  and  speech- 
less,—  a  white  face  with  eyes  staring  upward, 
apparently  in  drunken  communion  with  the 
stars. 


10  BEACHED  KEELS 

"Well,"  thought  Archer,  looking  into  this 
hillside  barroom,  where  through  the  gray 
smoke-layers  the  figures  of  men  moved  tip- 
sily,  "I've  found  plenty  of  it." 

His  entrance  no  one  noticed.  A  snarled 
group  swayed  in  midfloor,  three  men  pawing 
one  another's  shoulders,  in  an  effort  to  light 
their  pipes  from  a  single  match.  There  was 
no  talk,  no  sound  but  the  shifting  of  feet. 
Other  men,  ill-favored,  sprawled  in  a  half- 
stupor  on  a  bench  that  edged  the  room.  On 
the  bar,  in  the  light  of  the  tin  reflector  behind 
the  lamp,  stood  the  phonograph,  silent,  its 
conical  throat  yawning.  A  mean  little  man 
in  a  dirty  shirt  —  evidently  bartender  —  had 
stooped  to  pitch  something  out  of  a  window 
into  the  yellow  grass  that  waved  flush  with 
the  window  sill  and  rose  on  the  abrupt  slope 
of  the  hillside :  an  easy  exit  in  the  event  of  a 
raid. 

"  Where 'd  the  city  guy  blow  in  frum.?" 
mumbled  a  voice.  "  Look  at  ut,  would  ye  ? 
Say,  this  ain't  Camperbeller  ner  Baw  Haw- 
ber."  Mischief  was  in  the  voice  and  the 
thick  laughter. 


BLUE  PETER  11 

The  attention  of  the  drunken  roomful 
focused  itself  in  silence  on  Archer,  who  turned 
sharply  toward  the  speaker,  a  red-faced 
young  fellow  in  hip-boots,  leaning  unsteadily 
against  the  bar.  He  had  evil  little  eyes,  bad 
teeth  widely  spaced,  and  a  squash  nose  that 
showed  the  nostrils  in  front. 

Archer  was  a  young  man  of  sudden  likes 
and  dislikes,  who  did  not  calculate  his  retorts. 
The  "city  guy"  could  not  have  appeared  in 
his  six  feet  of  solid  build,  or  in  the  heavy  sea 
clothes,  which  failed  to  obscure  the  convex 
lines  of  strength.  It  must  have  been  sug- 
gested in  his  face,  which  was  of  the  dark, 
clear  brown  that  only  a  very  blond  man  takes 
from  long  weathering,  and  which,  though  at 
once  impetuous  and  resolute,  showed  a  fine- 
ness of  line.  He  lowered  his  rough,  shining 
head  as  he  answered:  — 

"You  would  n't  look  half  so  much  like  a 
kid's  jack-o'-lantern  if  you  'd  keep  your 
mouth  shut." 

Two  years  of  seafaring  had  taught  him 
the  advantages  of  bluntness.  They  had  also 
taught  him  to  stand  by  the  swiftest  disadvan- 


12  BEACHED  KEELS 

tage.  He  warded  off  the  heavy  tumbler  with 
his  elbow,  leaped  forward  at  him  who  had 
thrown  it,  and  pinioned  him  against  the  bar. 
Next  instant  an  ill-smelling  half-ton  scrim- 
mage of  drunken  men  had  surged  upon  them 
both. 

"Leggo  —  hell  —  soak  'im,  Beaky  —  stop 
that,  ye  damn  fool!"  came  in  smothered 
fierceness  from  the  swaying,  punching,  tug- 
ging knot  of  men.  Archer,  braced  mightily, 
and  straining  all  his  muscles,  had  just 
cracked  two  heads  together,  and  was  being 
pulled  down,  when  he  was  aware  that  his 
assailants  had  slowly  fallen  apart  and  stood 
about,  flushed,  breathless,  and  speechless. 
Some  one  was  knocking  at  the  door  master- 
fully. 

Archer  followed  their  drunken  eyes.  A 
door  at  the  end  of  the  counter  silently  came 
ajar,  and  a  hand  was  thrust  in,  —  a  great, 
red,  freckled  hand,  fat,  but  powerful  in  every 
joint.  Steady  as  a  rock,  it  held  itself  there, 
waiting.  The  bartender  swiftly  poured  out 
Exid  passed  to  it  a  tumbler  brimful  of  gin.  It 
withdrew  with  this  monstrous  drink,  while 


BLUE  PETER  13 

the  whole  company  stood  as  if  bulldozed  into 
silence.  Almost  instantly  the  glass  was  tossed 
in  empty,  the  door  closed,  and  heavy  foot- 
steps departed. 

So  strange  was  the  episode  that  Archer  had 
almost  forgotten  his  own  predicament.  He 
turned  to  find  his  enemies  dispersed,  —  part 
of  them,  led  by  the  young  man  of  the  jack-o  '- 
lantern  mouth,  already  slinking  into  corners. 

Tardy  and  timid,  the  bartender  piped  up : — 

"No  more  o'  this,  boys.  The  Old  Man  's 
round.  He  don't  stand  fer  no  rows,  some 
nights." 

Needless  enough  the  warning  seemed,  for 
the  men  sat  cowed.  Silence  fell  again,  except 
for  a  hiccough  or  two  from  the  bench.  Archer 
found  himself  once  more  the  centre  of  hostile 
eyes,  glowering  through  the  smoke. 

"There  's  no  need  of  any  rows,"  he  spoke 
out.  "I  didn't  come  in  here  to  start  one. 
This  man  here,"  he  said,  nodding  toward 
his  broad-faced  antagonist,  "this  man  here 
got  no  worse  than  he  gave  me.  If  he  wairts 
it  to  go  farther,  all  right;  if  he  doesn't,  all 
right.    I  don't  bear  any  grudge.    And  all  I 


14  BEACHED  KEELS 

came  in  for  was  to  ask  if  any  of  you  would 
put  me  up  for  the  night." 

No  one  volunteered. 

"If  any  one  will," — the  boatman's  warn- 
ing about  money  checked  and  changed  his 
speech,  —  "why,  it'll  be  better  than  sleeping 
out  these  cold  nights." 

The  silence  remained  discouraging. 

"I  was  told  that  Mr.  Powell  might,"  he 
persevered.  "Can  you  tell  me  where  he 
lives.?" 

The  young  man  in  hip-boots  broke  out 
angrily. 

"Old  man  Powell!"  he  sneered,  lurching 
in  his  seat.  "  Ho,  yes,  I  guess  he  will !  I  see 
him  doin'  it!  An'  I  guess" —  He  spat  out 
obscenity  which  showed  that  Powell  had  a 
daughter. 

"That  '11  do  for  you,  Lehane,"  called  a 
clear  voice  from  the  farthest  corner,  behind 
the  stove.  A  tall  man  stepped  out  from  the 
shadows,  and  fixed  on  the  young  drunkard 
a  pair  of  stern  eyes.  Taller  than  Archer, 
and  very  dark,  he  was  lithe  as  a  cat,  with  a 
grace  that  would  have  been  courtly  had  it 


BLUE  PETER  15 

not  been  wholly  native.  "That'll  do  for 
you,"  he  repeated,  in  a  voice  strangely  clear 
and  deep. 

Young  Lehane  seemed  to  shrink  before 
the  steady  brightness  of  his  look.  The 
speaker  turned  to  Archer  and  scrutinized 
him  as  steadily.  Without  ceremony,  yet 
without  offense,  he  took  Archer  by  the  arm 
and  wheeled  him  about  toward  the  light. 
The  two  men  stood  looking  each  other  in  the 
eye.  Archer  saw  before  him  a  man  of  his 
own  age,  entirely  sober,  with  the  face  of  a 
thinker,  —  a  face  swarthy  but  clear.  The 
searching  eyes,  that  seemed  almost  to  emit 
light,  were  wide-set  and  very  blue.  Three  big 
veins  scored  the  broad  forehead  with  irregular 
lines  as  blue  as  the  eyes,  or  as  the  jersey  that 
clung  to  the  sinewy  frame.  Intellect,  and  a 
kind  of  grave  passion,  shone  in  the  whole 
countenance :  the  man  might  have  been  Ham- 
let in  the  rough,  but  Hamlet  with  the  will  of 
Fortinbras,  sad  but  strong. 

"My  name's  Peter,"  he  declared  simply. 
"I  'd  like  to  have  yours." 

It  was  as  if  he  had  forced  a  reply  that  he 


16  BEACHED  KEELS 

might  study  a  face  out  of  repose.  Archer  felt 
that  this  young  fisherman  was  weighing  his 
character.  But  he  answered  without  resent- 
ment. 

"Mine  's  Hugh  Archer.  I'd  be  obhged  to 
you  if  you  'd  tell  me  of  a  night's  lodging  some- 
where. These  other  men  won't.  As  for 
Powell's  daughter" — he  was  going  on  half 
jocosely  — 

"Never  mind  what  Beaky  said,"  the  other 
cut  in,  with  severity.  "He's  full  o'  smut. 
It 's  best  forgotten."  Then,  after  a  long 
silence,  during  which  the  sharp  blue  eyes 
studied  further,  and  seemed  to  look  through 
Archer  into  futurity  and  consequences,  Peter 
added,  "Yes,  Powell  may  take  ye  in.  It's 
just  as  well,  after  all,  I  should  n't  wonder." 

The  tone,  unmistakably  sad,  was  one  of 
final  decision.  The  eyebrows  under  the  blue- 
veined  forehead  unbent. 

"My  brother  '11  show  ye  the  way." 

And  with  this,  stepping  to  the  open  door, 
he  whistled  into  the  darkness.  Presently 
there  came  a  patter  of  bare  feet,  and  a 
small,  ragged  boy,  bounding  up  the  steps, 


BLUE  PETER  17 

stood  and  peered  in  with  sharp,  mischievous 
eyes. 

"Hippolyte,"  said  his  elder  brother,  "show 
this  man  over  the  hill." 

Thanking  this  strange  helper,  who  only 
nodded  in  reply,  Archer  went  out,  followed 
by  the  stares  of  the  silent  company.  In  the 
dark  on  the  hillside  he  found  it  difficult  to 
keep  within  view  of  the  white  patch  that  was 
the  shirt  of  his  little  guide.  The  boy  ducked 
under  fir  trees,  scaled  ledges,  dove  into  under- 
brush, and  clambered  always  upward,  nimble 
as  a  goat.  Once  Archer,  though  he  too  was 
nimble,  called  a  halt,  halfway  up  the  steep 
bank  of  the  gulch.  As  they  rested  a  moment 
under  the  firs,  he  could  see  a  host  of  stars, 
large  and  bright  in  the  chill  air  of  early 
autumn,  and  even  larger  when  seen  thus 
from  the  depth  of  the  black  pass. 

"Who  is  Mr.  Powell.?"  he  suddenly  asked. 

The  boy  gave  an  odd  chuckle. 

"Powell.?"  he  said,  in  a  little  dry  voice 
like  a  satirical  old  man.  *'Oh,  he  owns  the 
island." 

"Really!"   said  Archer  in   astonishment. 


18  BEACHED  KEELS 

"And  so,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause, 
"you  're  all  his  tenants,  I  suppose." 

"I  s'pose  so,"  replied  the  boy,  breaking 
out  into  impish  laughter.  When  they  had 
started  climbing  again,  he  threw  back, 
"'Specially  the  Old  Man, —  Matt  Lehane, 
—  oh,  yes!"  And  for  some  distance  up  the 
rocky  path  under  the  brushing  firs,  the  child 
laughed  to  himself  in  a  kind  of  pert  irony. 

At  last,  gaining  the  summit,  they  found 
themselves  high  in  the  open,  on  a  bare  ledge. 
Over  this  landward  side  of  the  island  there 
still  lay  a  twilight  in  which  the  stars  looked 
pale,  and  which  showed  the  gleam  of  water 
far  below,  and  the  land  sloping  downward 
in  long,  hollow  fields. 

"See  that  light?"  said  the  boy.  "That 's 
Powell's.  Did  Peter  say  he'd  take  ye  in? 
Then  p'raps  he  will.  I  never  seen  no  one 
there."  Instantly  he  had  slipped  out  of 
sight  among  the  firs,  through  which  Archer 
heard  him  brushing  his  way  down  to  Black 
Harbor  again. 

As  no  reply  came  to  his  shout  of  thanks. 
Archer  began  the  long  descent  toward  the 


BLUE  PETER  19 

lighted  window.  In  the  west  still  glimmered 
a  strip  of  afterglow,  brownish  red,  as  if 
the  evening  had  been  hot  on  the  mainland. 
Still,  too,  a  thread  of  bright  water  outlined 
the  shore ;  and  farther  out,  in  the  dark,  lay 
vaguely  the  deeper  blackness  of  the  whirlpools. 
North  and  south  loomed  the  colossal  cliffs  of 
the  island.  But  his  way  toward  the  cove  led 
through  a  gentle,  pastoral  country,  —  con- 
cave slopes,  with  short,  dry  grass,  still  warm 
as  in  early  evening.  By  crossing  the  ridge 
above  the  harbor,  he  had  been  transported 
into  a  different  region,  of  Thessalian  rocks 
and  Arcadian  fields. 

When  at  last  he  rounded  the  corner  of 
Powell's  house,  he  was  surprised  to  find  it 
an  apparently  civilized  dwelling.  About  the 
door  the  leaves  of  a  vine  stirred  faintly  in  the 
air.  A  stone  doorstep  sounded  grittily  be- 
neath his  feet;  and  just  as  his  hand  was 
raised  to  knock,  he  saw  through  the  open 
window  a  room  lined  with  books,  a  flickering 
fire,  and  the  dim  figure  of  a  little  elderly  man 
sitting  by  a  yellow-  shaded  lamp.  From  be- 
yond the  lamp  came  the  clear  voice  of  a  girl 


20  BEACHED  KEELS 

reading  aloud;  but  he  could  see  only  one 
arm  of  the  chair,  and  the  white  skirt  flowing 
down  over  her  knees. 

The  man  raised  his  gray  head  to  interrupt 
the  reader. 

"That's  not  so  good  as  the  original,"  he 
said,  in  a  tone  of  fretful  resignation. 

Archer  let  his  hand  fall,  and  instinctively 
turned  to  go  back  toward  Black  Harbor. 

II 
The  instinct  was  that  of  the  social  rebel. 
The  house  seemed  too  plainly  the  comfort- 
able summer  cottage  of  sophisticated  people. 
He  had  not  been  in  that  atmosphere  since  the 
days  when  his  uncle  and  aunt  had  dragged 
him  to  the  seashore,  to  dress,  and  eat,  and 
talk,  and  —  among  rich  women  growing  fat 
and  rich  men  growing  bald  —  to  plan  trivial 
monotonies  beside  the  moving  eternity  of  the 
ocean.  It  was  to  escape  just  this  that  he  had 
turned  sailor,  and  set  his  own  naked  character 
to  wrestle  with  life.  So  now  he  turned  to  go 
away. 

But  the  girl's  ears  must  have  been  sharp. 


BLUE  PETER  21 

"There's  some  one  at  the  door,  father," 
he  heard  her  say.  Instantly  perceiving  that 
it  would  not  do  to  disappear  and  leave  them 
alarmed,  he  stood  where  he  was  on  the  door- 
step. But  he  afterward  remembered  that 
the  girl's  voice  showed  merely  surprise,  and 
no  trace  of  fear. 

The  figures  disappeared  from  the  room, 
he  heard  the  scratch  of  a  match,  and  presently 
footsteps  approached  the  door.  It  opened 
to  show  the  light  of  a  shaking  candle,  the 
little  man's  peering  face,  smooth-shaven  but 
lined  with  years,  and  over  his  narrow  shoul- 
ders the  face  of  the  girl,  alert,  clear,  large- 
eyed,  in  a  dusky  radiance  of  brown  hair  that 
glimmered  in  the  uncertain  light.  Their  sha- 
dows leaped  and  swung  on  the  walls  behind 
them.  Dim  eyes  and  bright,  sharpened  brows 
and  serene,  both  fixed  their  sight  on  the  burly 
young  sailor-man  before  them. 

"Who  is  it.^"  said  the  man,  in  a  gentle 
voice. 

Archer,  who  had  easily  met  the  hostile 
looks  of  the  revelers  in  Black  Harbor,  was 
abashed  before  this  girl. 


22  BEACHED  KEELS 

"Never  mind,"  he  said  confusedly,  "that 
is  —  I  was  looking  for  a  night 's  lodging,  — 
and  they  —  over  in  the  harbor  —  they  told 
me  that  Mr.  Powell  —  But  of  course,"  he 
floundered,  "I  didn't  know  what  you  were 
like  —  or  your  house  —  I  beg  your  pardon." 

The  little  man  laughed  quietly,  as  one  not 
given  to  laughter.  The  girl 's  eyes  shone  with 
encouraging  merriment. 

"What  am  I  like,  then?"  asked  Mr. 
Powell,  holding  up  the  candle,  so  that  the 
girl's  head  disappeared  in  his  shadow.  It 
was  a  sad  face,  long,  thin,  very  pale,  with 
black  eyes.  He  was  bald  over  the  temples, 
and  a  triangle  of  gray  hair  ran  to  a  point  mid- 
way above  a  forehead  engraved  with  parallel 
lines.  "I  had  hoped  to  seem  no  worse  than 
other  men,"  he  continued,  with  an  irony  not 
unkind.  "And  as  for  my  house,  if  you  will 
come  in,  you  will  find  it  tolerable." 

"Why,  sir,"  replied  Archer,  somewhat  net- 
tled, "  of  course  I  did  n  't  mean  that.  The  others 
seemed  a  rough  lot,  and  I  expected  —  Your 
house  is  too  good,  sir,  —  too  good  for  a  sailor. 
I  would  n't  have  disturbed  you"  — 


BLUE  PETER  23 

"My  dear  young  man,"  said  the  owner  of 
the  island  soberly,  "there  's  no  place  but  this 
fit  for  you  to  sleep  in.  Besides  that,  I  'd  be 
heartily  glad  to  have  you  here.  We  have  no 
visitors  year  in  and  out."  He  shifted  his 
candle,  so  that  the  girl's  face  reappeared, 
shining  with  undisguised  interest  in  the  situa- 
tion. "But  you'll  be  able  to  sleep  here, — 
better  than  I,  at  least.  A  sailor  —  and  of 
your  age  —  you  're  doubly  welcome.  Come 
in."  With  the  stiffness  of  courtesy  in  disuse, 
he  stepped  back  to  make  room.  The  girl 
retreated  into  the  shadows. 

"  You  're  very  kind,  sir,"  said  Archer, 
entering.  As  the  man  set  his  candle  down 
on  a  low  table,  the  light  revealed  a  little  hall 
and  staircase  of  brown  butternut  wood.  The 
absence  of  ornament  might  have  made  the 
place  severe,  had  it  not  been  for  candlelight 
and  soft  shadows,  and  the  presence  of  the  girl, 
a  slim  white  figure  against  the  dark  panels. 

"You  called  yourself  a  sailor,"  the  man 
continued;  "the  navy,  perhaps.?" 

"  Tramp  sailing  vessels,  mostly,  sir,"  Archer 
replied  with  some  stiffness. 


U  BEACHED  KEELS 

"Ah,— English,  I  should  say?" 

"American." 

His  host's  face  fell  somewhat.  It  bright- 
ened as  he  ventured: — 

"Did  you  ever  chance  to  be  in  Eastern 
ports  with  any  of  Her  Majesty's  ships  .P" 
And  when  Archer,  wondering,  gave  a  nega- 
tive answer,  there  was  silence  for  a  time. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  the  little  man  reflected.  "It 
was  a  foolish  hope,  of  course,  —  but  we  like 
to  reach  out  after  all  the  little  fragments  — 
glimpses" — he  ended  with  something  like 
a  sigh.  This  time  the  silence  grew  embar- 
rassing. 

"Father,"  said  the  girl  quietly,  "don't  you 
think"— 

The  large  eyes  of  the  pale  little  man  came 
back  sadly,  as  from  a  distance.  "Your  par- 
don, Helen,"  he  said.  "I  have  long  since 
forgotten  my  manners.  This  is  my  daughter, 
Mr."— 

Archer,  supplying  the  name,  spoke  to  the 
girl  for  the  first  time  face  to  face.  Her  words 
were  as  conventional  as  his,  but  something  in 
voice  and  manner,  something  frank,  bright, 


BLUE  PETER  25 

and  simple,  made  them  her  own.  The  girls 
among  whom  his  aunt  had  so  carefully 
brought  him  he  had  known  at  first  glance 
for  natural  enemies  and  strategists.  This  one 
seemed  as  naturally  a  direct  and  wholesome 
character.  He  liked  her  brown  face,  her 
speech,  and  above  all  the  light,  free  motion  of 
her  walk  as  she  crossed  the  hall  and  led 
them  into  the  lighted  room  where  he  had  first 
seen  them  sitting. 

Here  there  was  comfort,  —  the  soft  radi- 
ance of  the  yellow-shaded  lamp,  the  warmth 
of  a  fire  that  tempered  the  fresh  evening  air 
from  the  open  windows.  The  rows  of  books 
that  lined  the  walls  from  floor  to  ceiling  gave 
out  a  faint,  pleasant  smell,  indefinable.  Over 
the  fireplace,  in  the  only  space  left  vacant  of 
books,  looked  forth  the  white  cast  of  a  head, 
the  tragic  beauty  of  Meleager. 

After  a  few  questions  and  answers  as  to 
Archer's  presence  on  the  island,  "You  will 
pardon  me,"  said  the  prim  little  man,  mo- 
tioning him  to  an  armchair  by  the  fire,  "  if  we 
continue  our  reading  and  finish  the  chapter. 
I  have  perhaps  become  too  methodical  in  my 


26  BEACHED  KEELS 

habits.  It  is  not  a  merry  book,  but  you  can 
warm  yourself  meanwhile." 

The  girl  said  nothing,  though  she  looked 
possibly  a  little  disappointed.  As  they  took 
their  places,  she  became  once  more  for 
Archer  a  voice  from  behind  the  lamp,  and  a 
white  skirt  flowing  down  beyond  the  edge 
of  the  table.  But  the  sound  of  her  was,  in  a 
way,  as  good  as  the  sight;  and  the  voice  was 
filled  with  reality,  with  the  meaning  of  the 
words :  — 

"And  finally,  the  first  night  that  followed 
that  day!  .  .  . 

"Lying  in  the  *  Arabian  room,'  I  felt  con- 
stantly through  my  weary  half  sleep  the 
haunting  impression,  infinitely  sad,  of  the 
unaccustomed  silence  that  had  fallen  on  the 
other  side  of  the  wall  —  and  forever  —  in 
the  room  of  Aunt  Claire.  Oh!  the  dear 
voices  and  the  dear  protecting  sounds  that 
I  had  heard  there  for  so  many  years  through 
this  wall,  when  the  quiet  of  night  had  come 
in  the  house!  Aunt  Claire  opening  her  great 
closet  that  creaked  in  a  peculiar  fashion  (the 
closet  where  they  had  put  away  forever  the 


BLUE  PETER  27 

Ours  aux  'pralines) ;  Aunt  Claire  exchanging 
a  few  words,  which  I  could  just  hear,  with  my 
mother,  who  lay  in  the  room  beyond:  *Are 
you  asleep,  sister?'  And  her  great  clock  on 
the  wall  — now  stopped — that  used  to  strike 
so  loud ;  the  clock  which  made  so  much 
noise  when  it  was  wound,  and  which,  to  our 
great  amusement,  she  used  sometimes  to 
wind  on  the  stroke  of  midnight,  —  so  that  it 
had  become  a  traditional  pleasantry  in  the 
house,  whenever  we  heard  any  noise  at  night, 
to  lay  the  blame  on  Aunt  Claire  and  her 
clock.  .  .  .  Ended,  all  this,  ended.  Gone  to 
her  place  of  burial,  Aunt  Claire,  —  and  my 
mother,  doubtless,  will  prefer  not  to  return 
to  the  room  next  to  hers;  silence,  then,  has 
fallen  there  forever.  For  so  many  years,  it 
was  my  joy  and  my  peace  to  hear  them  both, 
to  recognize  their  dear,  good  old  voices  that 
came  clearly  through  the  wall  in  the  stillness 
of  the  night.  .  .  .  Ended,  now ;  never,  never 
shall  I  hear  them  more." 

Archer  was  happily  ignorant  of  what  the 
book  might  be.  But  when  the  girl's  voice 
had  ceased,  he  was  aware  that  her  father. 


28  BEACHED  KEELS 

forgetful  of  guest  and  daughter,  was  staring 
into  the  fire,  lost  in  remote  thoughts ;  that 
Helen  herself  had  risen,  and  stood  looking  on 
them  doubtfully;  and  that  the  silence  in  the 
room  was  insufferably  mournful.  At  last,  as 
he  was  about  to  make  a  rough  attempt  at 
breaking  it,  his  host  rose,  picked  up  the  book, 
and,  crossing  to  the  inmost  corner  of  the  li- 
brary, copied  out  something  upon  the  broad 
page  of  another  book  that  lay  open  on  a  desk. 
"A  bad  rendering,  but  it  will  do,"  he  said. 
Then,  stooping,  he  carefully  took  from  against 
the  bookshelves  a  violoncello  which  had  stood 
gleaming  soft  and  brown  in  the  lamplight. 

The  girl  turned  and  smiled  at  Archer,  as 
if  reassured,  and  yet  appealing. 

"  Now  you  will  have  better  entertainment," 
she  said,  with  a  gayety  that  seemed  not  quite 
so  natural  as  the  rest  of  her  ways.  "  Perhaps 
you  would  rather  have  something  to  eat," 
she  added,  as  her  father  tuned  the  strings. 
"I'll  get  it  for  you  when  he  has  played." 

Archer  smiled  in  return,  but  only  shook 
his  head,  for  her  father  was  already  waiting, 
and  now  formally  announced :  — 


BLUE  PETER  29 

"Bach  —  Suite  for  violoncello  —  prcelu- 
dium." 

The  fervent  voice  of  the  'cello  filled  the 
room.  Archer,  who  knew  good  playing, 
listened  in  delight;  but  presently  his  eyes 
wandered  to  the  girl,  as  she  now  sat  looking 
into  the  fire  in  her  turn,  and  to  the  sad,  pale 
face  of  her  father,  bending  over,  rapt  in  his 
music.  Strange  entertainers;  yet  stranger 
still  was  the  calm,  unconscious  egotism  of 
sorrow  in  this  host  who  had  forgotten  him. 
Through  prceludium  the  music  ran,  through 
sarabande,  and  into  bourree,  when  of  a  sudden 
it  stopped  lamely. 

"I  've  not  the  heart  for  it  to-night,"  said 
the  player,  as  he  restored  the  violoncello  to 
its  place.  "This  young  man  from  the  sea 
has  set  me  thinking  about  Arthur." 

"He  must  be  hungry,  father,"  the  girl  sug- 
gested, with  something  like  timidity.  "  Shall  1 
get"- 

"No,"  he  decided.  "Tell  Barbara  to 
come  here." 

The  girl's  face  darkened,  and  she  went 
out  with  visible  reluctance.    Presently  came 


30  BEACHED   KEELS 

a  shuffle  of  feet,  and  through  curtains  at  the 
back  of  the  room  there  entered  a  tall  old 
woman,  bent  but  strong,  who  at  the  sight  of 
Archer  spread  apart  her  clumsy  hands  in 
surprise. 

"Barbara,"  said  her  master,  "please  bring 
us  something  to  eat  and  drink." 

When  the  old  woman  had  disappeared,  the 
girl  looked  in  again  at  the  door  of  the  hall, 
mystically  bright  once  more  above  the  candle 
flame. 

"Good-night  to  you  both,"  she  called. 
Once  more  the  cheeriness  of  her  voice  was 
troubled.  "I'll  show  you  about  the  island 
in  the  morning,  Mr.  Archer.  You  will  like 
it,  I  hope."  She  stood  for  a  moment  unde- 
cided, then  slowly  went  up  the  stairs,  a  shin- 
ing figure  against  the  brown  panels. 

Archer,  replying  with  some  commonplace, 
was  conscious  that  she  had  stolen  the  bright- 
ness from  the  room.  Though  hungry  after 
his  wandering,  he  hardly  noticed  what  the 
old  servant  left  on  the  table  before  him. 
While  he  nibbled  at  something,  and  slowly 
drank  the  whiskey-and-water  that  Mr.  Powell 


BLUE  PETER  31 

had  poured  out,  his  interest,  for  the  time, 
became  merely  polite.  And  his  host,  though 
helping  himself  rather  freely  from  the  fat- 
bellied  bottle,  was  calmly  distant  in  his  own 
thoughts. 

"Do  you  come  here  every  summer,  Mr. 
Powell.?"  asked  Hugh,  after  an  interval. 

The  sad,  prophetic  eyes  returned  to  the 
present,  and  as  they  studied  the  young  man 
anew,  their  melancholy  look  was  modified 
by  a  smile  that  was  essentially  kind. 

"Every  summer.?"  the  little  man  repeated. 
"  My  boy,  we  live  here  all  the  year  round,  and 
have  lived  here  since  —  for  the  last  fourteen 
years.  You  look  astonished.  But  why  is  not 
this  island  as  good  to  live  and  die  on  as  the 
mainland  ?  They  send  us  over  clothing,  and 
food,  and  books.  You  see  for  yourself  how 
comfortable"  —  and  he  waved  his  hand 
about. 

"And  your  daughter  is  always  with  you 
here.?"  asked  the  visitor,  amazed  at  this  new 
aspect  of  the  case. 

"  Yes,  indeed  —  like  the  best  of  daughters," 
was  the  calm  reply. 


S2  BEACHED  KEELS 

Archer  meditated,  with  thoughts  unfriendly. 
There  was  some  hidden  malice  in  his  next 
words,  — 

"Why,  sir,  you're  like  Prospero  and 
Miranda." 

The  other  started  in  his  chair,  suddenly 
wide  awake.    But  the  hint  was  lost. 

"Prodigiously  apt!"  he  exclaimed,  all  in  a 
flutter.  "So  simple,  but  so  good.  It  holds 
closely.  And  I  had  never  once  thought  of  it ! 
Young  man,"  he  cried,  almost  beaming, 
"why  did  n't  you  tell  me  you  were  no  com- 
mon sailor?"  In  his  joy,  he  poured  for 
himself  from  the  bottle.  "A  boy  who  has 
read,  in  these  days!"  He  drained  his  glass 
and  refilled  it.  "  You  must  stay  with  me  — 
a  week  at  least  —  and  we  shall  have  good 
talk,  I  foresee.  —  This  parallel  of  yours  —  I 
am  ashamed  never  to  have  seen  it  —  showing 
that  an  outsider  has  the  better  perspective 
of  one's  life."  He  got  up  and  walked  about 
nervously  before  the  fire.  "I  am  Prospero, 
to  be  sure, —  and  my  book  —  and  as  for 
Trinculos  and  Stephanos,  Black  Harbor  is 
lousy  with  them.      Here  is  my  cell  —  and 


BLUE  PETER  33 

Helen  is  Miranda  —  and  luckily  there  are 
no  Ferdinands"  — 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  glanced  at  Archer's 
broad  shoulders  and  shining  head,  and  then 
stared  into  the  fire. 

"Hm!"  he  said,  his  enthusiasm  gone. 
After  a  silence,  his  voice  was  sad  again. 
"Yes,  though  I  am  Prospero,  I  have  no 
magic."  And  he  sighed.  "But  you  shall 
see  my  book.  No  one  else  has  read  it,  not 
even  Helen." 

Stepping  to  the  desk  in  the  corner,  he 
brought  over  and  laid  in  the  lamplight  a 
large  book  in  black  leather,  —  the  same  into 
which  he  had  been  copying.  Archer,  looking 
on  over  his  shoulder,  could  see  in  his  move- 
ments a  tremulous  pride. 

On  the  first  page  they  read  the  title, — 
"This  Bank  and  Shoal  of  Time." 

"You  see,"  said  the  little  man,  already 
transformed  into  the  explanatory  author, 
"the  title  is  naturally  suggested  to  one  living, 
as  I  do,  on  an  island  surrounded  by  the  eternal 
sea.  But  I  must  explain  that  you  will  find 
here  not  so  much  my  own  thoughts  as  those 


34  BEACHED  KEELS 

of  other  men  in  all  ages  and  countries, — 
their  most  serious  thoughts,  and  far-reaching. 
I  have  not  yet  connected  them  with  my  own 
interpretation,  or  indeed  arranged  them  in 
any  orderly  fashion." 

Archer  could  hardly  forbear  to  smile. 
But  he  had  no  such  diflBculty  when  he  had 
once  begun  to  read.  Under  the  title  stood 
a  quotation, — 

"  So  shalt  thou  feed  on  death,  that  feeds  on  men. 
And  death  once  dead,  there  's  no  more  dying  then." 

The  other  pages  were  a  kind  of  nightmare 
hodge-podge,  in  neat  manuscript,  of  mortuary 
fragments.  A  few  he  could  recognize,  many 
he  could  not.  He  read  rapidly,  with  the  assist- 
ance of  his  host,  who  turned  the  pages  eagerly. 

^'Sancti  Ambrosii:  de  Excessu  Fratris  Sui^ 
Satyris,  lib.  i,  18. —  Habeo  plane  pignus 
meum,  quod  nulla  mihi  peregrinatio  jam 
possit  avellere:  habeo  quas  complectar,  reli- 
quias :  habeo  tumulum,  quem  corpore  tegam : 
habeo  sepulcrum,  super  quod  jaceam." 

"Life  is  like  traveling  backward  in  a  cart; 
we  see  only  what  has  passed  and  is  moving 
away  from  us." 


BLUE  PETER  35 

''Meleager,  fragm.  532. —  All  men,  once 
dead,  are  nothing  more  than  earth  and 
shadow.    Nought  returns  to  nought." 

*'Von  Hartmann:  Philosophy  of  the  Un- 
conscious,  ii,  p.  480.  —  After  a  serious  con- 
sideration we  have  been  obliged  to  reply  that 
all  existence  in  this  world  brings  with  it 
more  pain  than  pleasure;  that  consequently 
it  would  be  preferable  that  the  world  should 
not  exist." 

"  That  was  a  fine  euphemism  of  the  Greeks', 
to  call  the  dead  'the  tired  ones.'" 

"The  prophet  Silenus  answered  in  these 
words  the  question  of  Midas,  king  of  Phrygia : 
'Children  of  a  day,  of  a  race  doomed  to  pain 
and  hard  trials,  why  do  you  force  me  to  say 
things  that  it  were  better  for  you  not  to  know  ? 
For  it  is  for  those  who  are  ignorant  of  their 
misfortunes  that  life  has  the  least  sorrow.  — 
Of  all  things  the  best  for  man  is  not  to  live, 
even  though  he  have  an  excellent  nature; 
what  is  best  for  all  men  and  for  all  women  is 
not  to  be  born. '    Aristotle:  on  the  Soul, " 

"All  this  lamentable  mockery:  to  love 
with  all  our  heart  beings  and  things  which 


36  BEACHED  KEELS 

each  day,  each  hour  sets  itself  to  wear  away, 
to  weaken,  to  carry  off  piecemeal; — and 
after  having  struggled,  struggled  with  anguish 
to  keep  some  few  bits  of  all  this  which  passes 
away,  to  pass  in  our  turn." 

Archer  could  read  no  more  with  patience. 

"It  is  a  remarkable  book,"  he  commented 
with  sincerity,  and  drew  away  from  the  table. 

"Remarkable!  You  may  venture  as 
much,"  retorted  the  scholar,  still  bent  over 
the  melancholy  pages,  on  which  he  seemed 
to  batten.  Then,  slowly  straightening  him- 
self, he  closed  the  book  and  put  it  away  in 
the  desk.  "The  only  book  of  its  kind,  and 
the  deepest,  the  truest  —  These  are  only  the 
crude  material,  but  you  shall  see."  He  took 
a  sip  from  his  glass,  wandered  thoughtfully 
to  the  window,  —  which  the  old  servant  had 
closed,  —  and  stood  looking  out.  "  It  must  be 
a  calm  night.  The  stars  and  the  lights  from 
the  town  —  the  reflections  are  very  clear.  It 
would  be  beautiful,  but  it  is  a  symbol.  Ah, 
*this  bank  and  shoal  of  time! '  Out  there  in 
the  dark  are  the  whirlpools  —  and  the  chan- 
nel" —  he  broke  into  muttered  quotation:  — 


BLUE  PETER  37 

"  *  Compescitunda,  scilicet  omnibus, 
Quicumque  terrae  munere  vescimur 
Enaviganda.' 

"Enaviganda,"  he  repeated,  and  was  silent 
for  a  long  time. 

Archer   was   moved   to    question   him :  — 

"Aren't  those  fellows  in  Black  Harbor 
dangerous  neighbors,  sir?" 

The  scholar  turned  on  him  his  long,  pale 
face,  showing  eyes  dull  with  indifference. 
"I  hardly  ever  see  them,  even,"  he  said. 

"And  your  daughter.^"  the  young  man 
could  not  help  persisting.  But  the  answer 
missed  his  point  surprisingly. 

"  Helen  ?  —  oh,  you  mean  that  it  is  lonely 
here  ?  —  Perhaps.  But  then,  she  is  well  and 
healthy,  as  you  see.  And  she  has  lived  here 
since  a  child.  When  my  wife  died,  I  came  to 
this  island,  to  retire  for  a  time,  as  I  thought. 
But  when  the  news  came  that  Arthur  was 
gone,  too  —  it  was  impossible  to  think  of 
going  back  among  men  and  cities.  It  is  better 
here.  —  As  for  Helen,  —  why,  after  all,  you 
know  — 

"  *  The  summer's  flower  is  to  the  summer  as  sweet 
Though  to  itself  it  only  live  and  die.' " 


38  BEACHED   KEELS 

Archer  could  have  struck  the  man.  He 
held  his  peace  with  difficulty,  until,  after 
pacing  up  and  down,  smiling  faintly  at  the 
aptness  of  his  quotation,  Mr.  Powell  came 
to  himself  again  to  say :  — 

"Here  comes  Barbara  to  show  you  your 
room.  Good-night,  sir,  and  I  hope  you  will 
sleep  well." 

Archer  followed  the  servant  and  her  candle 
up  the  stairs  to  a  landing  and  into  a  plain 
but  pleasant  little  bedchamber,  warmed  by 
an  open  fire,  and  overlooking  the  cove,  the 
water,  and  the  long,  reflected  lights  of  the 
town.  The  tall  old  woman  hesitated  as  she 
said  good-night. 

"It's  good  to  have  you  here,  sir,"  she  ven- 
tured, in  her  timorous  voice.  "It  is,  indeed." 
And  her  face,  brown  and  wrinkled  as  a  walnut, 
shone  with  kindness. 

Left  to  himself,  he  stood  thinking  over  this 
strange  landfall.  The  black  glacier  of  firs 
over  the  hill  had  been  gloomy  enough,  the 
inhabitants  like  the  place;  but  this  pastoral 
slope  of  the  island  —  was  it  better  ?  Pity  for 
the  girl  was  his  uppermost  thought,  —  a  pity 


BLUE  PETER  39 

to  which  his  rough,  working  life  had  rendered 
him  unfamiliar.  Sometimes  in  his  youthful  mel- 
ancholy he  had  thought  his  own  lot  hard,  — 
an  orphan,  too  rich,  among  worldly  relatives 
who  could  neither  inspire  nor  direct  a  right 
ambition.    But  this  girl,  living  alone  here  — 

"The  summer's  flower  is  to  the  summer  as  sweet," — 

"Odious!"  he  almost  cried  aloud.  He 
could  not  wait  till  morning  to  see  her  and 
talk  to  her.  At  least  he  could  not  sleep:  for 
an  hour  or  more  he  must  have  sat  on  the  edge 
of  his  bed,  thinking  over  this  philosopher  of 
charnel  fragments,  this  vague  egotist  who 
could  quote  so  inhumanly,  and  survey  with 
such  mournful  gusto  the  transiency  of  things. 
At  times  a  faint  stir  in  the  house  showed  that 
others  were  still  awake. 

His  Windows  were  open.  So,  apparently, 
were  those  on  the  landing  of  the  staircase; 
for  suddenly  he  heard  a  voice  near  at  hand 
speaking  into  the  night,  —  a  muddled  voice 
that  ran  the  words  together  thickly :  — 

"  Fair-ss-a-scar  —  when-on'y-one  —  is-s  — 
shining-in-the-sty  "  — 


40  BEACHED  KEELS 

Then  collected,  and  very  precise:  "Dis- 
gusting metathesis !  —  No,  that  is  not  the 
word" — 

"Come  along,  please,  sir,"  whispered  the 
old  woman's  voice  plaintively. 

Ill 

The  pillow  and  the  counterpane  were 
damp  when  he  awoke,  late,  after  a  night  of 
worried  tossing.  Fog,  white  and  cold,  filled 
the  chamber  as  with  smoke,  and  drifted  so 
thickly  past  the  window  that  he  could  see 
only  the  dim  outlines  of  a  little  garden  below; 
a  few  shrubs,  a  soft-colored  tangle  of  sweet 
peas,  and  the  high  heads  of  golden  glow  shin- 
ing through  the  white  obscurity.  Out  of  the 
fog  came  the  smell  of  seaweed  and  the  faint 
noise  of  waves. 

Quickly  putting  on  his  damp  clothes,  he 
hurried  downstairs,  in  some  disquietude  as  to 
the  time  of  day.  No  one  met  him  in  the  little 
hall  of  the  butternut  paneling.  A  breakfast 
table  still  waited,  white  and  shining,  beside 
a  fire  that  roared  in  the  wide  chimney;  and 
in  the  corner  a  tall  clock  beat  heavily  toward 


BLUE  PETER  41 

the  hour  of  ten.  He  waited,  glad  of  the 
chance  to  warm  himself  before  the  crackling 
birch  logs. 

At  last  a  little  door  opened  under  the  stairs, 
and  the  tall  old  woman  looked  in,  smiling,  to 
wish  him  a  good-morning. 

"Miss  Helen  said,"  she  announced,  "that 
you  must  n  't  mind  eating  alone,  sir.  She  and 
Mr.  Powell  won't  be  down  till  later."  Some- 
thing in  the  situation  had  fluttered  and 
embarrassed  this  good  creature,  who  nearly 
spilled  the  coffee  when  she  brought  it  in. 

So  at  an  excellent  breakfast  he  found  him- 
self alone,  and  vastly  disappointed.  All  the 
morning  he  sat  about,  watching  by  turns  the 
fire  within  doors,  the  white  void  without,  and 
fidgeting  more  than  he  had  ever  believed  pos- 
sible. At  one  time  a  voice  overhead  some- 
where continued  steadily  as  in  reading  aloud ; 
he  could  only  hope  that  if  Helen  was  helping 
her  father  to  pass  the  forenoon,  she  did  not 
do  it  too  willingly.  When  the  voice  stopped, 
and  still  no  one  came  downstairs,  he  flung  out- 
doors in  disgust,  and  wandered  down  the  little 
path  in  a  misty  profusion  of  bright  flowers. 


42  BEACHED  KEELS 

Smoking  his  pipe,  he  watched  the  sun  burn 
away  the  fog,  which  lifted  enough  to  show 
that  the  house,  a  comfortable  building  of  the 
native  red  stone,  faced  the  shore  from  a  beau- 
tiful hollow  field  which  curved  as  wide  and 
graceful  as  the  long  arc  of  pink  sand-beach 
below.  Headlands  north  and  south  were 
blotted  out,  but  the  base  of  the  great  red  walls 
stretched  along  between  the  green,  heaving 
water  and  the  white,  slow-rising  mist.  The 
voice  of  the  sea,  vague,  widespread,  and  hush- 
ing; the  heavy  air,  a  tepid  mingling  of  fog 
and  sunshine;  the  sense  of  lonely  heights 
obscured,  —  and  this  was  the  island  where 
a  young  girl,  radiantly  alive,  must  wear 
out  her  years  with  a  tippler  who  studied  the 
crumbling  of  time ! 

When  he  returned  to  the  house,  the  sun- 
shine had  already  conquered;  and  in  the  hall 
father  and  daughter  were  awaiting  him, — 
the  former  very  white  and  evasive,  the  latter 
a  little  tired,  and  not  beautiful  as  by  candle- 
light, but  brown-eyed,  winning,  a  gracious 
young  white-robed  mistress  of  the  house. 

"Good-morning,"  she  cried,  with  honest 


BLUE  PETER  43 

gladness,  and  came  quickly  forward  to  meet 
him.  Her  hand  was  a  funny  little  tanned 
thing  to  be  shaking  his  hard  paw. 

Just  what  happened  during  lunch  he  could 
never  recall,  except  that  his  host's  hands 
trembled  slightly,  and  that  he  himself  could 
look  at  Helen  over  a  bowl  of  poppies, — 
"astonishing  how  late  they  lingered  in  this 
salt  air,"  remarked  the  scholar,  —  and  that 
he  willingly  did  most  of  the  talking,  when  he 
found  that  to  a  pair  of  shining  eyes  his  two 
years  of  sordid  knocking  about  appeared  rich 
as  an  Odyssey.  Once,  when  he  happened 
to  speak  of  a  burial  at  sea,  the  eyes  were 
troubled;  but  Mr.  Powell,  pricking  up  his 
ears,  demanded  particulars.  Then  came  a 
tedium  of  sitting  about  while  the  scholar 
talked,  kindly  but  feebly.  At  last,  however, 
he  declared :  — 

"Helen  has  promised  to  show  you  about. 
I  '11  not  spoil  your  young  enjoyment  by  going. 
—  No,  no, "  he  chirped,  as  Archer  would  have 
feigned  to  protest,  "  I  'm  not  well  to-day. 
And  to  tell  the  truth,  Mr.  Archer,  I  cannot 
care  so  much  for  nature  as  I  did.    I  see  the 


44  BEACHED  KEELS 

changing  of  the  seasons,  rather  than  the  sea- 
sons themselves.     But  go  you  on,  you  two." 

And  so  Archer  found  himself  outdoors  in 
the  sunshine  with  the  girl,  talking  and 
laughing,  while  her  father,  from  the  door, 
looked  mournfully  after  them  down  the 
little   flowering   path. 

Their  escape  led  them  southward  along 
the  curve  of  the  hollow  field,  high  above 
the  shining  water,  and  toward  the  steep 
ascent  of  the  southern  cliffs.  The  short, 
yellow-bleached  grass  of  autumn  was  already 
dry  and  slippery  underfoot,  its  tiny  spears 
quivering  in  the  warm  breeze  that  had 
sprung  up  since  the  vanishing  of  the  fog. 

"I'm  glad  you  came  here,"  she  said, 
looking  up  happily.  Walking  beside  him, 
brown-faced,  bareheaded,  she  had  changed 
into  a  creature  of  the  sunlight  and  sea  air,  a 
light-footed  huntress  of  the  island  heights. 

"There  is  our  vegetable  garden,"  she  said, 
pointing  to  some  green  rows  behind  the  house. 
**  My  father  and  I  work  there  a  great  deal. " — 
He  laughed  to  hear  the  young  huntress 
deliver   such   prosaic   words.  —  "If  you   do 


BLUE  PETER  45 

that   to   things   I'm   proud  of,  perhaps  you 
won't  think  much  of  what  I  was  going  to 
show  you,"  she  threatened.     "I  forgot  — 
such  a  traveler  as  you  are"  — 

"No,  indeed,"  he  laughed.  "I  never 
saw  anything  I  liked  better."  He  had  been 
looking  down  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and 
her  hair,  wind-blown,  that  gleamed  like 
newly  weathered  bronze.  "Show  me  every- 
thing. That 's  a  landing-pier  down  on  your 
beach.     Do  you  sail?" 

"No,"  she  confessed.  "My  father  won't 
go  on  the  water.  We  had  a  rowboat,  but 
it  went  adrift  last  spring." 

"But  in  case  of  sickness  or  anything?" 
he  wondered.  "Can  you  telephone  to  the 
mainland?" 

"Why,  no,"  replied  the  girl,  in  surprise. 
"I  don't  believe  he  ever  thought  of  that. 
The  boat  brings  us  over  all  we  need,  every 
Saturday.  Oh,  and  in  such  weather!  In 
winter  it 's  larks  to  wade  down  through  the 
snow  and  help  them  land.  And  sometimes 
there 's  a  letter  from  my  uncle  Morgan. 
And  sometimes  it 's  too  rough  for  the  men 


46  BEACHED  KEELS 

to  go  back,  and  they  stay  and  talk.  I  like 
them  very  much,  though  my  father  does  n't." 

Her  happiness  was  truth  itself.  She  had 
forgotten  whatever  troubles  the  night  before 
or  the  morning  might  have  contained. 

Far  below  in  the  cove  lay  the  long  red 
curve  of  the  beach,  with  a  thin  black  line  of 
dead  seaweed  drawn  as  if  by  a  compass  along 
the  high-water  mark.  The  tide  was  begin- 
ning to  ebb,  but  near  the  shore  a  "  back  eddy  " 
moved  toward  them,  and  with  it  a  strange 
multitudinous  plashing,  like  continual  waves 
among  myriads  of  tiny  rocks. 

"Oh,  look!"  she  cried,  plucking  him  by 
the  sleeve.  "See  the  herring!"  Familiarity 
could  have  made  the  sight  no  less  beautiful 
to  her. 

Where  the  spurs  of  the  cliff  sprang  upward 
from  the  cove,  the  turmoil  was  working 
toward  them  over  the  water.  Countless 
tongues  of  silver  flame  leapt  up,  fell,  leapt, 
and  advanced  with  the  same  continuous 
plashing;  here  and  there  the  curved  flash  of 
little  bodies  wove  swiftly  in  and  out  of  water, 
pliant  threads  of  white  fire.     It  was  like  a 


BLUE  PETER  47 

squall  of  silver  pieces  blown  along  the  surface 
of  the  tide,  with  the  noise  and  the  upward- 
leaping  drops  of  a  ponderous,  concentrated, 
and  invisible  shower. 

"There  '11  be  good  fishing  to-night  for 
those  poor  fellows  over  the  hill,"  said  Helen, 
"  if  these  greedy  herring-gulls  don't  eat  it  all." 

Sure  enough,  a  white  flock  of  the  lesser 
terns  came  wheeling,  on  bent,  sickle  wings, 
along  the  red  face  of  the  crags,  and  with 
mournful  cat-calls  pursued  the  shoal,  poising, 
swerving,  diving  under  water,  to  stagger 
into  the  air  again,  each  with  a  glitter  in  its 
bill  and  a  sprinkling  of  bright  spray  from 
its  wings. 

"I  never  liked  them  very  much,"  she 
said,  "since  I  read  a  fairy  story,  when  I  was 
a  little  girl,  where  they  were  persons  trans- 
formed by  a  wicked  queen.  They  've  always 
seemed  uncanny.  Is  n't  it  queer  ?  But 
they  are  really  very  white  and  clean;  and, 
poor  creatures,  they  live  round  these  cold 
rocks,  and  their  cries  are  so  lonely." 

The  two  had  stood  close  together,  frankly 
sharing  their  happiness  in  the  sight,  frankly 


48  BEACHED  KEELS 

glad  of  each  other's  company,  like  old  friends. 
Shyness  and  constraint  were  beneath  the  na- 
ture of  this  girl,  who  had  the  clear  self-posses- 
sion which  comes  from  a  life  lived  rightly  alone, 
or  which  a  young  person  receives  from  asso- 
ciation with  an  old  one. 

"Did  you  have  any  playmates  here  when 
you  were  a  little  girl.^"  he  asked. 

"No,"  was  the  answer,  possibly  with  a 
tinge  of  sadness.  "Arthur  was  so  much 
older"  —  She  paused,  looking  absently 
after  the  wheeling  gulls,  and  the  shoal  now 
black  in  the  distance.  Then,  as  she  started 
walking  again:  "But  I  had  many  games," 
she  said  brightly.  "You  would  think  them 
silly.  Why,  this  field  that  we  're  crossing : 
I  used  to  walk  from  end  to  end  of  it  all  day, 
alone  and  perfectly  happy,  tapping  the  ground 
with  a  forked  hazel  stick  my  father  cut  for 
me,  and  playing  I  was  a  witch,  divining. 
It  was  the  happiest  day  in  my  life  when  I 
came  tapping  along  into  this  —  see  "  — 

The  rise  of  the  hill  had  become  more 
abrupt,  as  they  neared  the  ascent  to  the  high 
land  above  the  cliflFs.    In  the  deepest  of  the 


BLUE  PETER  49 

slope,  smooth-curved  as  an  amphitheatre, 
sheltered,  and  facing  the  warmth  of  the 
southwest,  the  grass  lay  greener  than  else- 
where, and  there  grew  a  clump  of  alders. 
Toward  this  she  led  him,  and  pointed  proudly 
to  a  tiny  spring  of  clear  water,  with  a  bottom 
of  pink  sand.  A  song-sparrow,  surprised 
in  his  bath,  flitted  into  the  bushes,  leaving 
the   water  all  a-quiver. 

"  Was  n't  that  good  divining  for  an  in- 
experienced witch  ?  "  she  asked,  elated.  '  *  I 
found  it  the  first  day.  Afterward  I  tried 
to  find  gold  and  silver,  but  never  did; 
and  so  I  played  more  round  this  spring,  and 
made  up  things  about  it.  Some  of  them  I 
made  up  so  hard  that  I  believe  them  even 
now, —  like  this,  that  whoever  drinks  of  it 
must  come  back  to  the  island  before  he  dies." 

Archer  flung  himself  down,  bent  his  shin- 
ing head,  and  drank  deep  of  the  cool  water. 
He  rose,  laughing,  but  more  than  half  in 
earnest. 

"I'm  glad  you  did  that,"  said  Helen, 
in  the  same  spirit.  And  they  moved  away, 
silent,  along  the  slope  of  the  amphitheatre. 


50  BEACHED  KEELS 

"Now  here,"  she  suddenly  declared,  stop- 
ping, "here  I  'm  going  to  ask  you  two  ques- 
tions. You  '11  never  guess  them.  The 
second  depends  on  the  first.  It 's  a  test. 
You  can't  ever  guess  them.  But  if  you 
don't,"  she  laughed,  "I  shall  be  disappointed 
and  shan't  like  you." 

Archer  forbore  to  make  the  complimentary 
retort.  With  her,  it  would  have  been  silly. 
"I  '11  try  my  best,"  he  replied. 

"Now,  first,"  she  said,  with  a  pretty  air 
of  pedagogy,  "my  father  and  I  call  this 
hollow  the  Marathon  field,  sometimes.  Why 
is  that?" 

Archer  rubbed  his  brows  and  frowned. 

"Now  it  isn't  Byron.  I  hate  him,"  said 
his  examiner.  "I  '11  give  you  a  clue.  What 
is  this  underfoot .?  You  '11  never  find  it  grow- 
ing so  far  north  again." 

They  were  standing  in  a  little  patch  of  fea- 
thery green  stuff,  with  a  few  belated  yellow 
flowers.  A  faint  aromatic  smell  came  to  the 
aid  of  his  memory. 

"Fennel!"  he  cried  joyfully.  "I  know 
—  it 's  what  old  Pan  gave  to  what-was-his- 


BLUE  PETER  51 

name  ?  —  the  runner :  and  the  Greeks  fought 
in  a  field  of  it." 

"Good,  good!"  she  cried,  in  unconcealed 
astonishment.  "I  never  expected  you  to. 
But  you  won't  answer  the  second  right. 
What  is  the  happiest  kind  of  death  .^" 

His  honest  brown. face  clouded.  Here,  he 
thought,  the  poison  of  her  father's  spirit 
worked  in  her.  Yet  her  bright  eyes  showed 
only  interest  in  the  game. 

"  Of  course  you  can't.  I  '11  give  you  an- 
other clue,"  said  this  Ariadne.  "The  second 
answer  is  in  the  same  story,  and  it  is  n't  about 
fighting  the  Persians.    Now  what  is  it  ?^^ 

"What  is  the  happiest  kind"  —  he  re- 
flected. This  time  he  really  gave  thought  to 
the  question.  "Why,"  he  said  at  last,  with 
conviction,  "the  way  this  same  fellow  in  the 
poem  died,  running  into  Athens  with  the 
news  of  victory,  among  them  all  —  still 
young"  — 

The  slim  white -gowned  figure  almost 
danced  in  the  patch  of  fennel.  "  You  're 
wonderful!"  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands. 
"That  was  it  — 


52  BEACHED  KEELS 

**  'Like  wine  through  clay, 
Joy  bursting  his  heart,  he  died  —  the  bHss!* 

Now  you  know  just  what  this  place  always 
makes  me  think  of,  and  you  thought  of  it,  too, 
nearly  all  by  yourself." 

It  was  idle  to  pretend  that  this  simple 
game  had  not  established  a  bond  between 
them.  The  world  might  have  been  young 
again,  or  they  might  have  known  each  other 
since  Marathon  itself.  For  a  moment  they 
stood  in  the  warm  sunlight,  with  faces  shin- 
ing on  each  other,  undisguised;  then  they 
began  to  climb  toward  the  bare  skyline  of  the 
heights,  slipping  on  the  yellow  grass,  scram- 
bling, helping  each  other  up  the  steep  bank, 
happy  as  the  encircling  sunshine.  The  warm 
breeze  followed  them,  sweet  with  pennyroyal 
crushed  underfoot. 

IV 

On  the  height  their  footing  changed  to 
bare  pink  ledges  with  grass-grown  intervals 
of  thin  earth.  A  spiked  wall  of  dark  firs  and 
a  little  grove  of  white  birches  disappointed 
him  by  cutting  off  all  view  of  Black  Harbor 


BLUE  PETER  53 

on  the  seaward  side.  Powell's  cove,  too,  had 
vanished:  the  hollow  field,  the  spring,  the 
house  itself,  had,  in  a  few  steps  from  the  edge 
of  the  ascent,  dropped  from  sight  so  utterly 
that  the  island  seemed  one  great  table-land 
some  ten  miles  long,  continuous,  though 
curving  at  the  middle  to  a  narrow  ridge. 
From  their  way  along  the  verge,  they  could 
look  back,  straight  down  upon  the  shining 
channel,  the  low  mainland,  and  the  smoke- 
blurred  elms,  masts,  and  crisscross  streets 
of  the  petty  town.  Alone  and  aloft,  they 
walked  slowly,  their  shadows  already  spin- 
dling before  them  over  the  ledge  and  the 
yellow  grass.  Sometimes  they  crossed  a  bare 
scar  of  rattling  pebbles,  that  in  the  shelving 
places  rolled  from  under  their  feet,  and,  unless 
stopped  in  some  green  slant  of  matted  ground- 
pine,  fell  silently  over  the  cliff,  down  to  the 
black  seaweed  at  the  foot  of  that  dizzy 
height. 

"I  come  here  often,"  said  Helen,  after 
the  long  silence  of  outdoor  companions. 
"This  little  faint  path  is  all  my  own  making. 
Oh,  it  was  your  boat  I  saw  crossing  yester- 


54  BEACHED  KEELS 

day  afternoon! — Two  of  you? —  But  you 
could  n't  have  seen  me,  for  I  was  lying  down 
close  to  the  edge,  and  just  saw  you  disappear 
round  the  southern  end." 

"It  must  be  melancholy  to  come  up  on 
this  height  all  alone,"  said  Archer. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  returned.  "That's  the 
strangest  part  of  it.  I  never  feel  alone  any- 
where on  the  island,  partly  because  I  used 
to  make  believe  so  much.  And  then  I  've 
always  had  a  queer  feeling  that  there  was 
some  one  moving  along  parallel  to  me,  not 
far  off,  and  not  very  near  —  a  kind  of  invisible 
person  that  you  might  almost  see  out  of  the 
corner  of  your  eye  —  especially  in  or  near 
woods,  and  among  white  birches  more  than 
anywhere.  My  father  says  it 's  very  inter- 
esting, and  shows  how  paganism  begins.  I 
don't  know.  But  it  seems  real.  Some- 
times —  like  drinking  from  the  witch's  spring, 
you  know  —  I  've  looked  up  quickly  to 
catch  a  sight  of  it  —  the  presence.  But  it 
never  appears.  It  makes  you  feel  quite 
safe  —  and  yet  somehow  —  cautious.  See 
how  I  talk   about  my   notions!     It's  your 


BLUE  PETER  55 

fault.  You  've  been  silent.  Tell  me  more 
about  what  you  've  seen  and  done." 

"No,  please,"  said  Archer.  "I've  told 
you  most  of  it.  It 's  been  a  pretty  dull  life, 
sailing  round;  and  yours  is  so  much  better." 
Walking  behind  her  again,  he  could  see  the 
neat  springing  of  her  ankles,  the  free  play  of 
white-clad  shoulders,  the  bronze  gleams  in 
her  hair,  blown  away  from  him.  But  he  was 
thinking  of  this  childhood  into  which  she 
had  given  him  glimpses;  and  pity  strove 
with  admiration. 

"The  white  birches  I  spoke  of,"  she  con- 
tinued, gayly  voluble,  facing  about  and 
pointing,  "see,  there  they  are,  behind, 
against  the  firs.  You  should  see  them  in 
winter,  too.  Once,  after  a  storm,  they  were 
all  weighed  down  with  ice  till  I  was  afraid 
they  would  break.  But  it  was  very  beautiful 
—  bending  along  together  under  the  ever- 
greens behind  —  and  made  me  think  of 
princesses  in  a  fairy  story,  all  stealing  by  the 
foot  of  a  dark  wall,  you  know,  to  escape." 

They  clattered  across  a  frail  foot-bridge, 
spanning  a  narrow  black  gorge,  in  which  the 


56  BEACHED  KEELS 

sea  splashed  somewhere  down  in  the  dark- 
ness. Then,  between  the  empty  sunlit  air  of 
the  verge  to  the  right  and  the  wall  of  firs  to 
the  left,  the  breadth  of  yellow  grass  led  them 
upward  to  the  skyline  and  the  southern  end 
of  the  island.  Often  Archer  had  to  climb 
ahead  and  pull  her  up  the  arduous  hillside. 
As  they  gained  the  top,  the  firs  gave  place 
to  pines  and  cedars,  whose  trunks,  bleached 
by  salt  winds,  had  been  blown  about  till  the 
roots  writhed  above  ground  and  the  distorted 
branches  grew  away  from  the  sea.  From 
among  the  trunks  gleamed  the  eastern  sky. 
This  was  the  same  tempestuous  grove  that 
Archer  had  seen  from  the  boat;  and  perhaps 
it  was  some  remembrance  of  the  lurking 
ambiguity  of  movement  among  these  trunks 
that  made  him  ask :  — 

"  Have  n't  the  fellows  in  Black  Harbor 
ever  troubled  your  father  or  you.^  They 
seem  a  rough  set" — 

**No,  indeed,"  replied  Helen  wonderingly. 
"They  're  just  poor  fishermen,  I  think. 
They  only  came  and  lived  there;  my  father 
said  nothing.    But  he  has  forbidden  me  to  go 


BLUE  PETER  57 

up  on  the  hill  above  the  harbor,  so  I  've  never 
even  seen  them.  Oh,  that  ^s  not  true.  Once 
last  spring  an  awful  man  met  me  up  here,  — 
a  young  man,  but  dreadful,  with  a  kind  of 
flat  face  and  nose,  —  and  began  to  speak  to 
me.  I  was  so  frightened  I  almost  started  to 
run,  and  did  n't  hear  what  he  said.  And 
then  another  man,  very  tall,  in  a  blue  jersey, 
with  very  bright  eyes,  and  blue  veins  in  his 
forehead,  overtook  him  and  spoke  to  him, 
and  they  both  went  away.  I  did  n't  come  up 
here  for  weeks  after,  not  even  on  the  Sunday 
mornings.  But  I  did  n't  see  them  again. 
There!  if  I've  not  told  you  the  only  secret  I 
have  from  my  father!" 

Archer  rejoiced  in  this  guileless  compli- 
ment. At  the  same  time  he  seemed  to  recog- 
nize two  acquaintances  in  the  narrative,  and 
was  greatly  disturbed.  But  just  then  the  ocean 
lay  before  them.  They  had  come  to  the  very 
end  of  the  island. 

One  peep  over  the  edge,  where  blue 
harebells  quivered  in  the  wind,  made  him 
look  well  to  his  footing  on  the  parched  grass. 
He  drew  back  beside  Helen,  and  the  two 


58  BEACHED  KEELS 

stood  looking  down  the  great  sheer  drop  of 
shattered  brown  rock,  —  broken  pillars  of 
basalt,  stained  with  orange,  and  rust,  and 
deep  green,  and  whitened  with  bird-droppings. 
From  the  foot  of  the  cliffs  and  the  little 
crescents  of  shingle  beach  below,  the  tide 
was  ebbing  away  almost  without  a  sound,  it 
was  so  calm  under  the  lee  of  the  head. 
Helen  tossed  over  a  pebble,  and  a  score  of 
white  gulls  started  up  from  among  the  rocks, 
to  go  wheeling  from  headland  to  headland, 
with  peevish  cries  as  of  lonely  wickedness. 
Amazingly  high  in  the  sunlight  the  big  birds 
soared,  with  heads  bent  down;  amazingly 
far  beneath  moved  the  sea,  —  endless,  inward- 
toiling  lines,  rising  away  to  the  weary,  straight, 
infinite  circumscription  of  the  horizon. 

"It  is  beautiful,"  said  he  at  last,  "and 
unspeakably  sad.  One  is  very  little  —  and 
yet  glad  to  feel  so." 

"That  was  well  added,"  said  the  girl 
thoughtfully.  There  was  nothing  further  to 
be  said. 

Out  here  at  the  meeting  of  earth,  air,  and 
water,  the  wind  seemed  more  cold,  the  sun- 


BLUE  PETER  59 

light  pale,  and  the  girl's  face,  from  being 
young,  had  taken  on  the  mysterious  look  of 
age  that  sometimes  comes  to  one  who  has 
long  watched  the  sea.  Their  comradeship 
grew  closer,  —  little  human  allies  tacitly 
united  in  the  face  of  vast  and  melancholy  na- 
ture. A  slow-forming  thought  suddenly  over- 
whelmed him:  here  was  a  girl  who,  in  her 
eyes,  her  speech,  her  acts,  showed  that  her 
life  could  include  and  master  sorrow.  And 
he  had  walked  with  her  hardly  two  hours,  and 
he  could  not  bear  to  leave  her. 

"The  hardest  part,"  said  the  girl  sadly,  as 
if  speaking  to  herself  in  the  void  of  ocean  air, 
*'  is  not  to  know  what  my  father  really  believes 
and  really  does  n't.  He  answered  me  once 
that  God  was  the  Ether  of  Euripides.  Now 
what  can  a  young  girl  make  of  that.^" 
Suddenly  her  wide  brown  eyes  turned  to 
him.  "  Oh ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  I  was  thinking 
—  what  have  I  said  ?  —  But  you  '11  forget 
it  —  and  you  're  not  a  stranger" — 

"No,"  he  faltered,  his  voice  thick  and  com- 
ing with  an  effort.  "  No,  I  'm  not  a  stranger — 
I  won 't  tell  —  and  even  if  I  did,  no  one 


60  BEACHED  KEELS 

aboard  ship  would  care  —  or  know  who  — 
My  three  days'  leave  are  up.  I  '11  be  gone  to- 
morrow, anyway." 

She  cried  out  in  pure  dismay. 

"Oh,  you  mustn't!"  Then,  flushed  and 
confused, —  "I  forgot,  of  course.  You're 
such  a  wanderer  —  and  have  your  duties, 
too" —  She  smiled  uncertainly.  "Why,  I 
must  have  been  making  believe  once  more  — 
it  becomes  a  habit,  probably  —  even  to  play- 
ing I  had  a  big  brother  again.  It  was  very 
nice  to  have  one  —  just  for  an  afternoon  — 
but  silly  —  and  for  a  grown-up !  —  I  beg 
your  pardon  " — 

"Helen!"  he  cried,  forgetting  everything, 
and  stepping  in  front  of  her,  as  if  to  intercept 
her  look  and  her  thoughts  from  going  wide 
upon  the  sea.  What  he  would  have  said 
further,  he  never  knew;  for  in  the  wild 
manoeuvre  he  nearly  slipped  from  his  feet. 

"  Come  back  from  the  edge! "  she  cried,  and 
seized  him  by  the  jacket.  "You  must  n't!" 
The  movement  swung  them  together,  she 
still  grasped  the  rough  cloth  by  instinct,  and 
for  one  fiery  moment  their  faces  Were  perilously 


BLUE  PETER  61 

close,  their  spirits  passed  in  flame  between 
the  shining  eyes. 

"Oh,"  she  cried  again,  letting  go  and 
shrinking  back  astounded,  staring  at  him 
with  a  pale  face  of  terror.  "  Oh,  what  have 
we  done.'^  We  don't  know  each  other,  not 
even  know  each  other!"  She  covered  her 
face.  "  Something  passed  between  us,  it  can't 
be  unsaid  or  undone.  What  must  you  — 
please,  please  go  away!  I  shall  pay  for  this 
alone,  —  oh,  the  long  retribution! "  She  cried 
bitterly,  bowed  down  and  trembling. 

Archer  drew  near,  neither  allowed  nor 
forbidden,  and  tried  to  console  her,  like  a 
clumsy  child  striving  to  put  together  the  frag- 
ments of  some  priceless  thing. 

"Helen,"  he  said.  "Don't  cry  so.  Don't." 
He  awkwardly  patted  her  head,  but  she  only 
nodded  once  as  if  to  acknowledge  the  conso- 
lation. The  slanting  sunlight  fell  kindly 
round  these  two  troubled  children,  aloft  on 
the  lonely  headland. 

"I  mean  it  for  good,  always,"  he  begged 
hurriedly.  "The  time  is  no  matter  —  long 
or  short  —  if  it  had  n't  been  then  it  would 


62  BEACHED   KEELS 

have  been  never.  Don't  you  see,  Helen? 
Just  believe.  I  can't  prove  it  to  you.  Why," 
he  cried  in  despair,  **  if  I  had  n't  meant  it  for 
always,  I  'd  no  more  have  done  it  than  I  'd 
have  tried  to  kiss  good  old  Barbara  the 
cook!" 

The  girl  still  hid  her  face,  but  laughter 
mingled  funnily  with  her  sobs. 

"You  can  prove  it,"  she  declared  suddenly. 
And  seizing  him  by  the  hand,  but  with  her 
face  averted,  she  began  to  lead  him  away 
from  the  precipice,  toward  the  grove  of  wind- 
swept cedars  and  pines.  "You  can  say  it  to 
me  before  my  brother,"  she  said,  eagerly  tug- 
ging him  along. 

Wondering,  he  followed.  They  found 
themselves  in  a  little  natural  clearing  among 
the  bleached  trunks  and  dark,  distorted 
branches.  At  the  back  of  the  clearing  a  tall 
wooden  cross,  with  gray  arms  wide-stretched, 
faced  out  toward  the  sea.  Helen  dropped  his 
hand,  and  they  entered  side  by  side,  quietly, 
as  if  into  a  little  chapel.  They  stood  in  sha- 
dow, the  sunlight  barely  tipping  the  dark  trees. 

"Here  is  where  I  come  on  Sunday  morn- 


BLUE   PETER  63 

ings,"  she  said  with  reverence.     "  It  's  my  — 
it's  everything  to  me." 

Together  they  read  the  inscription  on  the 
gray  cross. 

To  THE  Memory 

OF 

ARTHUR  POWELL 

BURIED  AT  Sea 

February  7,  18  — 

Lat.  10®  24'  17^^  N.    Long.  135°  0'  43''  W. 

"He  was  my  brother,"  said  Helen,  almost 
in  a  whisper.  "  Older  than  I,  and  dearer  to 
me  than  any  one  else.  I  can't  remember 
my  mother,  but  he  seems  to  have  been  here 
only  yesterday.  You  were  just  his  age,  and 
somehow  like  him:  that  was  what  made 
my  father  -^  made  him  more  sad  even  than 
usual,  last  night." 

The  gulls  complained  in  the  wide  solitude 
of  the  air. 

"This  is  your  church,"  said  Archer,  at 
last.  "And  if  your  brother  were  here,  I 
would  tell  him  just  what  I  told  you  outside. " 

The  girl  gave  him  her  hand  with  a  kind 
of  grave  joy. 

"Perhaps  he  hears  you,"  she   said,  and 


64  BEACHED  KEELS 

her  voice  was  full  of  mystery.  "My  father 
comes  here  seldom;  but  once,  after  he  had 
stood  here  for  a  long  time,  he  said  at  last, 
'  Henceforth  thou  art  the  genius  of  the  shore. ' 
I  like  to  believe  that  of  Arthur." 

Hand  in  hand  they  moved  away. 

"  Was  that  a  noise  in  the  trees  ?  "  she  asked, 
stopping  suddenly.  They  looked  about,  but 
saw  nothing,  and  went  on,  slowly,  out  of  the 
little  clearing.  Still  silent,  they  faced  the  home- 
ward way  along  the  cliflF. 

Archer  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his. 

"You  believe  now,"  he  said. 

Swiftly,  for  an  instant,  she  clung  about 
him,  astonishingly  small  at  close  quarters,  and 
hiding  her  face  comically  under  his  elbow. 

"Oh,  I  knew  you  would  come!"  she  said 
brokenly,  laughing  and  crying  together.  "I 
knew  you  'd  come.  When  you  drank  from 
the  spring,  and  answered  the  two  questions, 
I  knew  it  was  you  —  all  the  time.  No,  no, 
you  mustn't."  She  sprang  away,  laughing, 
and  raced  down  the  slope  toward  the  sunset. 

Archer  could  run,  but  the  chase  lasted  to 
the  brink  of  the  farthest  hill.    They  stopped, 


BLUE  PETER  65 

laughing  with  what  breath  they  had,  and 
from  the  height,  still  lit  by  the  sun,  looked 
down  into  the  cove  and  the  fields  of  home, — 
a  deep  bowl  of  soft  evening  shadows. 

"Oh,  my  poor  father,"  said  Helen,  chang- 
ing. "I'd  forgotten  his  side  of  it."  She 
paused,  in  a  study.  "You  must  n't  come  to 
dinner, "  she  said.  "  Come  in  late,  and  make 
some  excuse.  I  could  n  't  carry  it  off  with 
you  there.  Do  go  over  the  hill  and  see  them 
fish.  He  has  n't  forbidden  you."  Her  face 
was  clouded  at  the  prospect  of  deceit. 

"I  '11  go,  then,"  said  Archer,  bitterly  dis- 
appointed, and  yet  happy  as  a  lord  of  the 
world.    "But  I  can't  stay." 

"Oh,  to-morrow,"  she  called  back  from 
below,  "to-morrow  we  must  talk  —  a  great 
deal.  We  must  know  each  other  first.  But 
your  ship  ?  " 

"  I  '11  go  see  the  captain,  and  he  '11  swear, " 
said  Archer.  "There  she  is."  And  he  pointed 
to  the  masts  of  a  barkentine  lying  at  a  wharf 
in  the  distant  town.  "  But  she  can  sail  with- 
out me,"  he  laughed,  and  tossed  his  hand 
gayly  in  the  air,  snapping  his  fingers  at  the 


66  BEACHED   KEELS 

mainland.  Then  he  watched  Helen,  as  she 
ran  down  the  lower  slope  into  the  pastoral 
shadows. 


He  walked  slowly  over  ledges  and  grass,  the 
long  shadows  creeping  to  meet  him.  The  sun- 
light stole  upward,  left  his  face,  left  the  white 
birch  tops,  left  the  fir  points,  and  was  gone  from 
the  island.  The  breeze  grew  cool.  And  when 
he  stood  on  the  pink  ledge  above  the  down- 
ward pass  to  Black  Harbor,  lights  already 
twinkled  from  the  town,  and  the  northern 
headlands  were  black  against  the  afterglow. 
He  stood  looking  for  a  while,  his  joy  quiet 
and  deep.  Yesterday,  and  the  two  years 
before,  he  had  been  a  cheerful  runaway, 
letting  money  and  goods  lie  fallow  ashore, 
rejoicing  in  bare,  hard  life  and  in  youth. 
He  had  come  over  to  this  island  to  fill  an  idle 
day  or  two,  —  and  here  was  Helen,  —  and  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye  life  had  changed,  had 
grown  more  complex,  serious,  yet  strangely 
fortunate.  He  had  given  some  fugitive 
thought  to  such    matters.     "But  I  didn't 


BLUE   PETER  67 

know  it  would  be  like  this,  exactly,"  he  said 
to  himself.  Always  before  he  had  craved 
to  have  things  go  swiftly  ahead,  event  suc- 
ceeding event  while  his  mind  still  tugged 
forward  to  the  future;  but  now  a  little  pause 
in  the  present,  a  breathing-space  to  look 
happily  about  in,  was  his  sole  desire.  It  was 
only  his  promise  to  Helen  that  made  him 
renounce  the  temptation  of  smoking  his 
pipe  and  thinking  there  on  the  summit,  and 
go  slowly  down  through  the  black  firs. 

For  the  first  few  steps  he  could  look  down 
the  evergreen  glacier,  miles  down,  it  seemed, 
upon  the  dimly  shining  harbor,  two  or  three 
boats  at  anchor,  the  dark  curve  of  the  bar, 
and  a  sombre  headland  along  which  a  single 
belated  gull  went  winging  swiftly.  Then  he 
was  immersed  in  darkness.  As  he  stumbled 
downward  he  found  his  thoughts  strangely 
mingled:  Helen  with  her  shining  hair  con- 
fused somehow  amid  a  newborn  pity  for  her 
father,  a  new  inquisitiveness  as  to  his  life 
and  the  lives  of  others,  the  man  with  the 
blue-veined  forehead,  his  pert  little  brother, 
the  fishermen  silent  in  their  cups.    "  He  must 


6S  BEACHED  KEELS 

have  had  a  hard  deal  sometime,  her  father,'^ 
thought  the  young  man;  "and  the  others, 
too."  Last  night  they  had  seemed  mere 
figures  in  the  darkness,  the  pawns  in  a  game 
of  adventure,  the  "persons  who  do  not 
count."  To-night  he  would  like  to  learn 
more  of  them. 

In  this  friendly  spirit  he  finally  broke  into 
the  open,  on  the  hillside  behind  the  huts. 
The  barroom,  as  he  passed,  was  lighted,  but 
empty,  save  for  the  little  man  waiting  before 
his  bottles.  Archer  went  on,  through  the 
stink  of  fish  among  the  gray  huts,  down  to  the 
beach ;  and  here  he  came  upon  small  groups, 
some  twenty  men  in  all,  smoking,  talking, 
and  looking  down  over  the  long  slope  of  wet 
pebbles  and  seaweed  to  where  a  few  boats 
waited  at  the  water's  edge. 

One  of  the  groups  he  joined,  with  an  odd 
reluctance.  They  peered  at  him  through 
the  dusk,  with  perhaps  a  little  surprise,  then 
smoked  and  spat  in  unconcern.  They  were 
sober  to-night.  By  their  faces  —  all  dark  and 
thin,  some  vicious,  some  dull  —  they  were 
simple  men  enough,  quiet,  ordinary,  and  poor. 


BLUE  PETER  69 

"Wha'  d'ye  git  under-runnin'  yer  trawl, 
Kellum?"  one  asked  finally,  between  puffs. 

"Nothin'  but  hakes  and  skates,"  answered 
a  sad-faced  little  old  man,  whom  Archer  recog- 
nized as  the  dulse-gatherer  of  the  night  before. 
Back  into  his  yellow-stained  beard  he  thrust 
his  pipe,  like  a  stopper  to  his  mouth. 

"I  seen  him  knockin'  'em  off,"  said  a 
young  man,  with  a  loud,  empty  laugh.  Then 
conversation  flagged. 

"The'  must  'a'  been  thirty-five  bar 'Is  in 
the  Grab- All  to-night,"  said  the  first  speaker. 
"She  didn't  hold  a  tubful  o'  herrin'  last 
tide.    They  're  comin'  in,  I  tell  ye." 

"Thirty-five  berrils!"  twanged  a  Yankee 
voice.  "They  was  forty  in  that  wyre  if  they 
was  a  fish.  They  're  thick  as  fiddlers  in 
Tophet." 

"  Well,"  replied  the  other  peaceably,  "we  '11 
git  some  more  this  flood,  spudgin',  anyway." 

Silence  fell  again. 

"Cap'n  Kellum,  you  was  sayin',"  ventured 
another,  as  if  resuming  a  debate  which 
Archer  had  interrupted,  "you  was  sayin' 
that  the  Regina  had  a  centreboard.     Now 


70  BEACHED   KEELS 

that 's  no  kind  o'  use  on  a  schooner.  She  's 
too  big  a  bo't." 

"Too  big  a  bo't  fer  you,  'cause  you  'd 
knock  the  bottom  out  of  'er,"  retorted 
Kellum  placidly.  "Some  men  is  proper 
fools  about  bo'ts,  if  they  hev  been  out  from 
Gloucester." 

" Haw,  haw!"  the  loud  young  man  shouted 
in  ecstasy. 

"That  shows  how  much  ye  know,"  the 
old  one  went  on,  suddenly  excited.  He  took 
out  his  pipe,  and  argued  with  bent  fingers 
pegging  at  his  opponent  in  the  dusk.  "The 
longer  yer  bo't,  the  more  wood  ye  got  at 
each  end  o'  the  hole  to  keep  'er  solid.  The 
Regina,  —  if  I  had  the  money  to  buy  'er 
back,  I  'd  not  stay  in  this  stinkin '  cove,  — 
why,  I  see  'er  comin '  out  from  Freeport  with 
'er  centreboard  down,  an',  by  Godfrey,  she  'd 
go  like  a  horse  !" 

"Yeah,  she  'd  go  like  a  horse,"  assented 
the  Yankee.     "That 's  right." 

Another  listener  wagged  his  head.  "She 
would,  too.    She  'd  go  like  a  horse. " 

The  loud  young  man  laughed  again.     "I 


BLUE  PETER  71 

seen  'er,"  he  echoed.  **  She  'd  go  like  —  Kke 
a  horse." 

This  simile  exhausted  by  popularity,  the 
group  was  silent  once  more,  with  pipes 
glowing  in  the  dark.  A  bent  figure  slouched 
past  them  down  the  beach. 

"Hey,  Mulb'ry,"  some  one  called  after  it. 
"Goin'  out  a'ready.?"  There  was  no  an- 
swer. "Mulb'ry  's  sore  'cause  he  didn't  git 
all  that  bottle  o'  gin  las'  night,"  mocked  the 
Yankee. 

Another  figure  tramped  down  through  the 
pebbles. 

"Muckahi!"  came  a  yell  from  a  neighbor- 
ing group.  "  Sebattis,  ain't  you  got  that  bo't 
down  yet.?" 

The  soft  voice  of  an  Indian  replied.  With 
quiet  command  of  the  vernacular,  he  advised 
his  questioner  to  go  deeper  than  Purgatory. 
Old  Kellum  straightened  his  curved  shoulders. 

"Sebattis,"  he  shouted,  "you  go  git  that 
bo't  off  'fore  I  give  ye  a  lift." 

There  came  the  hollow  grating  of  a  boat 
pulled  down  to  the  water.  "  That  Injun  '11  be 
takin'  charge  round  here,"  growled  Kellum. 


72  BEACHED  KEELS 

Other  figures  went  crunching  downward 
through  the  dark,  till  the  footsteps  glimmered 
with  phosphorus  on  the  distant  seaweed. 
A  newcomer  joined  the  group.  *' Here's 
Blue  Peter,"  said  the  Yankee. 

"  I  was  puttin'  another  bow  on  my  dip-net," 
explained  the  deep  voice  of  Archer's  young 
friend.  The  net,  on  its  long  pole,  stood  high 
above  his  head,  like  some  drooping  standard 
obscure  in  the  starlight.  "  Beaky 's  b'ot  's  olBf 
a'ready,"  he  added,  *'an'  Joe's,  an'  Benny's." 

The  men  started  down  the  beach. 

"Can  I  go  out  with  you,  Peter?"  asked 
Archer,  on  the  impulse. 

The  reply  came  in  an  odd  tone  of  surprise 
mingled  with  something  else. 

"Oh,  that  you,  sir?  Yes,  sure,  if  you'd 
like."  As  Archer  slipped  his  money  into  his 
shirt,  and  threw  his  coat  on  the  beach,  he 
wondered  at  the  touch  of  respect. 

They  trooped  down  together.  Under  the 
heavy  boots,  glow-worm  drops  of  phosphorus 
filled  the  wet  seaweed  with  spreading  blots 
of  brightness.  To  the  "chock-chock"  of 
oars   on  thole-pins,   some  half-dozen  boats 


BLUE  PETER  73 

were  already  crowding  out  through  the  gap 
in  the  sea-wall,  every  keel  a  running  line  of 
blue-gold  fire.  Among  the  half-dozen  more 
which  now  put  out,  Archer  found  himself 
in  the  bow  of  Peter's  roomy  skiff.  "Let  me 
row,"  Hippolyte  had  begged.  So  the  young- 
ster pulled  out  ably,  while  Peter  sat  in  the 
stern.  Liquid  gold  dripped  from  the  oars; 
fan-shaped  clouds  of  blue-gold  smoke  swept 
astern  with  each  pull;  and  to  Archer,  in  the 
bow,  seeing  the  dim  shining  of  the  oarblades, 
the  bright  arrowhead  of  ripples  that  spread 
from  the  cut-water  behind  him,  it  seemed 
that  they  must  be  rowing  forward  into  the 
lights  of  a  great  town.  So  strong  was  the 
delusion  that  he  turned  his  head,  and  was 
surprised  to  find  only  the  looming  of  the  sea- 
wall as  the  boat  slipped  through,  the  black- 
ness of  the  ocean  outside,  the  running  lines 
of  golden  fire  under  the  other  keels. 

Their  small  flotilla  moved  somewhere  to 
the  southeast,  hugging  the  shore  under  the 
cliffs,  skirting  the  bunts  of  a  weir  or  two, 
rugged  blacknesses  picked  out  with  lapping 
phosphorus  round  the  foot  of  the  poles.     A 


74  BEACHED  KEELS 

deep,  irregular  drumming  started  up  ahead, 
like  horses  running  confusedly  across  a 
bridge,  or  empty  trucks  rumbling  over  a 
stony  road. 

"What 's  that?"  said  Archer. 

"They  're  spudgin',"  replied  Peter,  from 
the  stern.     "Show  him,  boy." 

The  youngster  began  jumping  his  oars 
about  on  the  gunwale.  The  boats  astern  took 
it  up,  till  the  wide  air  rumbled  with  the 
heavy  drumming  and  the  echoes  of  the  cliffs. 

"It  '11  make  'em  rise,"  Peter  explained. 
"You  take  the  oars,  sir,  and  Hippolyte,  you 
come  down  stern  here.    I'll  go  in  the  bow." 

They  crawled  past  each  other  over  the 
thwarts.  Archer  soon  caught  the  knack 
of  drumming  and  rowing  by  turns.  The  boy 
pounded  the  sides  with  both  fists. 

"See,"  called  Peter  suddenly.     "There's 


some." 


The  water  was  stirred  into  millions  of 
tiny  golden  globules;  golden  streaks  shot  in 
crisscross  multitudes,  like  tiny  comets  smoth- 
ered in  deep  sea.  Peter  plied  his  dip-net 
swiftly.     With  a  swash  and  a  thump,  some 


BLUE  PETER  75 

half-barrel  of  herring  fell  aboard,  in  a 
writhing,  flipping  heap,  alight  with  phos- 
phorus. 

More  splashing,  and  a  few  more  tumbled 
in.  " 'T  won't  do,"  grunted  Peter.  "Not  's 
many  's  they  seem.  Head  'er  out  again, 
sir.  They  're  tryin'  to  drive  'em  —  with  the 
torches." 

Archer  turned  the  boat,  and  pulled  out  to 
sea,  until  the  order  came  to  turn  again. 

"  I  '11  light  the  dragon,"  said  Peter.  "  This 
is  against  the  law,  ye  know,  sir,  but  the  law 
ain't  got 's  long  an  arm 's  they  say." 

With  a  crackle  of  birch-bark  and  the 
smell  of  burning  kerosene,  a  light  flared  up 
as  if  their  bow  had  been  on  fire.  Other 
torches  flared  far  along  the  water,  coursing 
shoreward  till  the  giant  shadows  of  men  and 
rocks  tossed  and  swung  high  on  the  dim 
red  crags. 

"  Keep  'er  headed  just  as  she  is,"  com- 
manded Peter.     "Now  pull  like  the  devil, 


sir." 


Archer  obeyed  till  the  sweat  trickled  down 
his  forehead.     "  A  little  faster,  sir  —  a  little 


76  BEACHED   KEELS 

faster" —  his  captain  kept  urging;  and  Archer 
tugged  with  all  his  young  muscles.  Other 
boats  flamed  alongside  of  them.  "  We  've 
caught  up,  going  famously,"  he  thought. 

Just  why  it  happened  he  never  could  have 
told.  Suddenly  a  torch-lighted  bow  swerved 
astern  of  them,  —  nearly  ran  them  down ; 
and  he  saw  above  the  smoky  flame  the  goblin 
face  of  Beaky  Lehane,  —  the  flat,  cartilagi- 
nous nose,  the  wide-spaced  teeth,  the  evil 
little  eyes,  a  face  distorted  in  a  mania  of 
drunken  passion. 

"Git  out  o'  my  way!"  he  raved,  with  a 
fierce  oath. 

The  boy  in  the  stern  half  rose  in  terror. 
Behind  the  grinning  face  a  hand  left  the 
pole  of  a  dip-net,  and  tried  to  catch  Lehane 
by  the  shoulder.  But  in  the  same  instant 
he  swung  out  savagely  with  the  torch.  The 
iron-shod  stake  crashed  down  on  the  head 
of  the  little  boy,  who  fell  with  a  kind  of 
whimper  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  Archer, 
rising  in  a  rage,  heard  Peter  roar  at  his  back, 
and  felt  him  leap  astern.  But  he  himself 
had  the  better  place,  and  swung  the  oar  like 


BLUE  PETER  77 

an  axe  with  all  his  strength.  It  struck  Lehane 
with  a  wooden  resonance  and  a  tingling 
shock  that  ran  through  Archer's  forearms. 
Both  boats  upset  in  a  souse  of  phosphorus. 

The  water  was  shockingly  cold.  Squirting 
a  salt  and  golden  jet  from  his  mouth,  he 
looked  about.  Two  black  hands,  the  fingers 
spread  stiffly  apart,  sank  in  the  boiling 
witch-fire.  They  were  too  large  to  be  the 
boy's.  Next  instant  he  bumped  into  Peter, 
whose  face  was  smeared  with  an  unearthly 
glow  as  if  rubbed  with  wet  matches,  and  who 
held  the  little  body  under  one  arm,  while  he 
lashed  out  the  other  through  the  blue-lighted 
spray. 

"  No,  no ! "  gasped  Peter.  "  You  can 't  help  ! 
Swim  ashore!  I've  got  him.  They  can  all 
swim.  Get  out!  Swim  to  the  ledge,  anyway. 
Go  on,  man.  Oh,  my  God!"  He  was  sobbing 
as  he  swam. 

Archer  could  see  other  men  splashing 
lustily  away  in  luminous  patches. 

"It 's  every  man  for  himself,"  he  thought^ 
and  struck  out  vaguely  for  the  shore.  Through 
the  cold,   shining  water  he  swam,  through 


78  BEACHED  KEELS 

shoals  of  fish  quick  and  startling  to  the  touch, 
and  at  last  pulled  himself  out,  shedding 
glow-worm  drops,  upon  the  round  stones  of 
the  sea-wall.  Here  he  waited.  But  by  the 
torches,  the  other  boats  seemed  to  be  looking 
for  something.  He  dimly  saw  men  pulled 
aboard,  and  still  the  search  went  on.  No  one 
came  to  join  him.  Then  he  remembered  a 
little  ledge  offshore,  bare  at  low  tide.  The 
others  must  have  swum  to  that.  He  grew 
very  cold  as  he  waited;  still  the  torches 
hovered  aimlessly  in  the  distance;  and  at 
last,  with  teeth  chattering  in  the  night  air 
of  autumn,  he  clambered  over  the  breakneck 
stones,  followed  the  inside  curve  of  the  wall, 
until,  after  many  falls  and  infinite  groping, 
he  stumbled  upon  his  coat.  Carefully  drying 
his  hands  in  the  beach-grass,  he  hunted 
matches  out  of  the  pocket.  Old  grass, 
broken  fish-flakes,  and  cedar  shavings  from 
weir-poles,  soon  snapped  and  blazed  on  the 
pebbles.  He  sat  drying  himself  as  well  as 
might  be,  and  waited  for  news  of  this  sud- 
den and  strange  mishap.  He  was  uneasy 
over  the  stroke  he  had  dealt  with  the  oar;  yet 


BLUE  PETER  79 

the  thought  of  the  little  boy  braced  his  con- 
science at  the  same  time  that  it  made  his 
heart  sink. 

In  these  thoughts  by  the  fire,  growing  warm 
and  sleepy,  he  was  startled  by  a  growling 
voice. 

"Who  the  hell  are  you,  buildin'  fires  on 
my  beach  .^"  The  speaker  was  a  man  of 
middle  height,  prodigiously  broad  and  bulky, 
with  a  wide  red  face  in  which  the  eyes  were 
so  staring  and  the  big  red  nostrils  so  far 
apart  that  he  had  the  aspect  of  a  bull.  As 
the  question  came  rumbling  again  in  a  thick 
bass.  Archer  noticed  that  the  hands,  in  the 
firelight,  were  fat,  freckled,  and  immensely 
powerful,  like  the  hand  thrust  in  at  the 
barroom  door.  This,  then,  was  the  Old  Man, 
and,  by  the  resemblance  to  the  face  at  which 
Archer  had  swung  his  oar,  it  was  Beaky 
Lehane's  father. 

"Oh,  go  to  the  devil,"  he  answered,  too 
cold,  and  tired,  and  bitter  to  let  any  man 
stare  at  him  so.  "This  isn't  your  beach, 
anyway.  It  's  Mr.  Powell's.  Go  stare  at 
somebody  else." 


80  BEACHED  KEELS 

"Well,  by  the" — wheezed  the  man,  and 
stopped,  cut  speechless  by  wonder  and  rage. 
Then  the  hulking  body  lurched  nearer. 

"Look  here!"  cried  Archer,  jumping  up 
and  shaking  his  fist.  He  had  lost  his  temper, 
as  in  a  bad  dream.  "  Be  off  with  you !  This 
is  my  beach  as  much  as  yours,  if  it  comes  to 
that.  I've  lighted  a  fire,  and  I'm  going  to 
sit  alone  by  it.  Alone,  do  you  hear  ?  You  're 
only  a  squatter.  Well,  here  I  squat,  too. 
You  'd  better  go  look  after  your  son,  —  he  's 
got  himself  into  a  pretty  mess,  and  serve 
him  good  and  right! " 

He  expected  that  on  the  heels  of  this  they 
would  be  rolling  down  the  pebbles  in  a  clinch. 
Instead,  the  big  man  breathed  hard  with  a 
startled  puff,  and  asked  anxiously:  — 

"Where.?    Where  is  he?   What  was  it?" 

"Oh,  over  there,"  said  Archer  wearily, 
pointing  by  guess  toward  the  foot  of  the 
cliffs.  "  Been  a  fight  —  overboard  —  I  don't 
know,  go  look  for  yourself." 

The  man  reeled  off  into  the  dark.  Archer 
was  so  tired  that  he  merely  felt  relieved, 
as  from  a  bore.    He  piled  the  fire  till  it  blazed 


BLUE  PETER  81 

high,  dried  himself  fairly  well,  and  waited 
sleepily.  Still  nothing  appeared  from  harbor 
mouth  or  sea-wall.  Suddenly  it  flashed 
through  his  drowsy  brain  that  he  was  ex- 
pected back  at  Powell's  that  night.  This 
bit  of  civilized  obligation  came  like  some- 
thing laughable,  out  of  some  other  person's 
life.  It  was  in  a  droll  dismay  that  he  hurried 
off  up  the  hill. 

Once,  through  a  gap  in  the  black  layers 
of  the  fir  branches,  he  caught  the  shine  of 
lights  far  below.  "  Let  them  go  till  morning. 
I  '11  be  back,"  he  thought.  Perhaps  the 
little  boy  was  not  hurt  so  much,  after  all. 
Like  one  in  a  heavy  dream  he  climbed 
wearily  over  the  hill  and  downward  through 
starlit  fields  to  the  house. 

A  candle,  burning  low,  waited  for  him  in 
the  little  brown  hall.  He  locked  the  door 
without  a  sound.  "What  a  mess  for  a  visi- 
tor! "  he  pondered  ruefully.  But  the  thought 
that  Helen  was  in  the  same  house,  even 
though  she  were  asleep,  came  to  him  like  a 
comfort. 


82  BEACHED  KEELS 


VI 

All  night  a  land-breeze  swept  overhead  from 
the  north,  as  if  streaming  down  an  intermin- 
able valley.  Despite  his  weariness,  he  slept 
ill;  his  dreams  were  a  riot  of  pictures,  —  the 
jBrs,  the  gulls,  the  witch-fire,  Helen  looking 
away  from  him  at  the  sea,  the  boy  rising,  in 
fear,  against  the  torchlight, —  and  through  it 
all  a  troubled  half-remembrance  of  the  blow 
he  had  struck  with  the  oar.  When  he  woke, 
at  sunrise,  the  wind  had  fallen.  The  house 
still  lay  drowned  in  sleep.  He  dressed,  stole 
downstairs,  and  looked  about  for  his  cap, 
which  he  had  left  there  two  nights  before. 
It  was  not  to  be  found.  He  did  not  know 
then  that  Helen  had  taken  it  to  her  room, 
laughed  and  cried  and  committed  pretty  fol- 
lies over  it,  and  at  last  gone  to  sleep,  intend- 
ing to  leave  it  in  the  hall  before  he  should 
be  up.    So  he  went  outdoors  bareheaded. 

The  wind  had  swept  away  with  it  all 
vestiges  of  summer,  and  brought  in  a  pure 
dawn  of  uncompromising  autumn.  The  night 
had  drawn  a  sharp  line  between  the  seasons. 


BLUE  PETER  83 

The  air  was  crisp  and  chilly;  gossamer- 
films  of  frost  silvered  the  grass;  and  round 
the  upper  outline  of  the  headland  that  shut 
ojff  the  south  and  east,  a  faint,  cold  smoke 
rose  in  the  first  warmth  of  morning.  What 
remained  of  sky  and  sea  was  a  dull  sepia 
touched  with  flakes  of  pale  yellow. 

Climbing  over  the  fields  to  the  pass,  he 
was  aware  that  some  one  sat  waiting  for 
him  on  the  edge  against  the  sky.  He  climbed 
faster.  The  figure  resolved  itself  into  the 
lean,  solid  body  of  Peter,  his  blue  jersey, 
his  heavy  rubber  boots  rolled  down  below 
his  knees  in  the  fashion  of  some  uncouth 
cavalier. 

"How  is  he?"  called  up  Archer.  "How 
did  it  come  out.?" 

The  blue  eyes  under  the  blue-veined  fore- 
head looked  down  gravely,  as  Peter  shook 
his  head.  Even  through  the  dirty  growth 
of  beard,  the  lines  of  his  face  were  hard 
and  old.  With  fears  suddenly  full  grown. 
Archer  sprang  upward  and  stood  before 
him.  Something  made  him  wait  for  the 
other  to  speak. 


84  BEACHED  KEELS 

"It's  bad,"  said  Peter,  at  last.  "Bad;" 
and  he  stared  out  over  the  fields  and  the 
channel,  like  a  steersman,  who  has  the  air 
of  listening  to  talk  in  the  boat  while  his  eyes 
look  miles  out  to  sea.  Then  he  said  abruptly, 
"The  boy's  dead." 

"Oh,  Peter!"  cried  Archer,  and  was 
struck  dumb.  "  Oh,  my  God,  I  'm  sorry  — 
I  'm  sorry  for  you."  He  could  find  no  words, 
but  the  tone  must  have  meant  something, 
for  the  other  suddenly  lost  his  set  composure, 
and  covered  his  swarthy  face  and  blue-scored 
forehead  with  his  hands. 

"I  knowed  you  was  a  good  feller  all 
right,"  he  said  brokenly. 

For  a  time  neither  spoke.  It  was  Peter 
who  began. 

"I  was  up  on  the  cliffs  yesterday  after- 
noon," he  slowly  declared,  "and  saw  you. 
She  heard  me  in  the  trees" — 

"What!"  cried  Archer  in  surprise.  And 
then  with  disappointment,  "  Well,  I  did  n't 
think  it  of  you,  if  " — 

"Why,"  said  the  other,  once  more  gazing 
off  before  him,  "how  was  I  to  know,  then? 


BLUE  PETER  85 

I  had  n't  no  means  o'  tellin'  for  sure  that 
you  was   any  diff'rent  from  the  others" — 

"Others!"  Archer  exclaimed,  hotly  and 
yet  with  wonder.  "There  are  n't  any  others. 
That 's  a  lie.    There  never  were  any." 

The  blue  eyes  looked  squarely  at  him, 
deep,  with  a  weary  brightness. 

"  Oh,  yes,  the'  was,"  the  fisherman  replied. 
"The'  was  one  other.  Wait!"  he  added 
sternly.  "I  'm  slow  at  these  things,  but 
you'll  ketch  my  drift.  It's  eight  years  that 
I've  kep'  an  eye  on  her.  Beaky  was  round 
after  her.  She  never  knowed  it.  The'  was 
a  girl  ashore,  over  in  town,  he  got  after, 
that  —  Never  mind.  That  was  n't  goin'  to 
happen  here,  if  I  c'd  stop  it.  I  've  licked 
Beaky  twice;  and  so  long's  he  was  on  the 
island,  I  never  left  it,  —  never,  for  all  his  old 
man  ordered  me  off.  Don't  ye  see  ?  When 
she  'd  go  round  down  there  all  alone,  playin', 
—  God,  I  've  knowed  'er  longer  'n  you, 
anyway,  —  or  up  on  the  head  —  why,  I  was 
always  round,  spyin'  out.  Why,  man,  that 's 
only  why  I  stayed  here."  He  looked  down 
and  fumbled  with  the  dirty  cloth  lining  of  his 


86  BEACHED  KEELS 

boots,  in  a  pathetic  kind  of  bashfulness.  "  I  'd 
never  'a'  told  this  to  a  soul,  but  I  see  you 
was  all  square  —  an'  meant  right  by  'er  —  an' 
how  it  was  between  ye.  Well,  she 's  never 
come  to  harm,  an'  't  was  me  that  had  the 
hand  in  that."  He  ground  both  fists  between 
his  knees,  with  the  effort  of  expressing  these 
long-stifled  thoughts.  Then  he  looked  up 
once,  in  the  pale  light  of  sunrise.  "  I  '11  ask  ye 
to  take  that  back  what  ye  said  about  lyin'." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Archer,  deeply 
humbled.  "  I  took  it  wrong.  I  did  n't  under- 
stand all  this.    I  beg  your  pardon." 

"That's  all  right,  then,"  he  answered 
simply.  ]"  Now  to  come  to  the  point.  The'  's 
no  time  to  lose.  Beaky  Lehane  's  paid  for  it. 
He 's  gone." 

Sunlight,  ledge,  black  firs,  and  circle  of  air, 
looked  pale  and  sickly  round  Archer.  He 
thought  he  could  not  have  understood. 

"You  don't  mean" — he  began  weakly, 
trying  to  stave  off  what  he  knew  would  be  the 
truth. 

"Yes,"  said  Peter.  "They  found  him 
'bout  four  this  mornin',  on  the  beach." 


BLUE  PETER  87 

Archer,  wrestling  with  this  thought,  found 
that  the  fisherman  had  risen  and  was  patting 
him  roughly  on  the  shoulder.  "That's  all 
right,"  he  was  saying.  "  Don't  look  so  cut  up. 
That 's  all  right.  'T  was  n't  you.  He  started 
out  drunk  —  jus'  got  drowned,  that's  all. 
You  did  n't  no  more  'n  give  him  a  clip  on  the 
shoulder,  jus'  bruised  him.  That 's  straight. 
If  ye  hadn't,  I'd  'a'  given  worse  to  him. 
An'  if  ye  had  done  it,  I  'd  'a'  owed  ye  one. 
He's  a  good  riddance.  Don't  ye  see,  sir, 
he  was  crooked,  bad  clean  through.  It 's 
better  for  her  now  that  he  's  gone.  Don't 
take  on,  now.  'T  was  him  that  killed  the 
little  boy." 

Archer  was  ashamed  that  he  could  receive 
better  comfort  than  he  had  given  this  man. 
He  pulled  himself  together. 

"You  said  there  was  no  time  to  lose," 
he  ventured,  remembering  dizzily.  "Well, 
what 's  to  be  done  ?  " 

"That's  it!"  cried  Peter,  with  bitterness. 
"  What  ?  It  's  a  bad  business.  Matt  Lehane 
—  the  old  man  —  they  told  'im  it  was  you 
that   done   for   Beaky.     He   thinks   it   was 


88  BEACHED  KEELS 

about  her  —  the  girl.  He  's  down  there  ever 
since,  holdin'  a  reg'lar  devil's  wake  over  'im 

—  it  —  there.  An'  drunk !  Lord !  But  he 
don't  lose  his  legs,  nor  his  head;  the  drink 
jus'  sharpens  'im.  Well,  he'll  git  'em  all 
drinkin',  —  likely  he  's  started  that  by  now. 
Then  he'll  bring  his  gang  up  over  here;  it  's 
you  he  's  gunnin'  for,  but  I  won't  answer  for 
what '11  happen  at  Powell's,  when  they  git 
started.  It  '11  be  a  pretty  crowd.  An'  here 's 
you  an'  me,  an'  old  man  Kellum,  —  an' 
p'raps  Benny,  —  an'  for  a  long  guess  Sebattis, 

—  'cause  Beaky  was  always  cuffin'  'im  round, 

—  if  he  don't  git  drunk  first.  'T  won't  do. 
'T  ain't  enough  of  us.  He  '11  git  fifteen  or 
twenty,  —  the  devil's  rinsin's  they  are,  too." 

"I'll  go  down  and  see  him,"  said  Archer. 
"That  '11  keep  them  away  from  the  house. 
I  'm  not  afraid  of  him,  I  hope."  And  he 
told  briefly  of  the  encounter  by  the  fire. 
"He  didn't  seem  so  terrible." 

"That  may  all  very  well  be  —  for  last 
night,"  declared  Peter,  his  blue  eyes  alight 
with  keen  thought.  "He  's  rotten,  an'  a 
brute,    but   you    must   remember   the'    was 


BLUE  PETER  89 

jus'  one  good  thing  in  'im,  he  thought  the 
world  o'  Beaky.  He  's  the  only  one  to  do 
that.  Oh,  I  tell  ye  he  's  a  devil  anyway,  an' 
worse  when  he's  drunk.  They  '11  be  too 
scairt  not  to  f oiler  'im,  anywheres  he  says. 
That  's  all  that  kep'  'em  together  as  a  gang. 
No,  't  would  jus'  be  murder  if  ye  went  down 
there  now;  an'  you  can't  be  spared.  An'  I  'm 
not  guessin'  about  this,  for  I  went  round, 
quick,  too,  to  sneak  a  bo't,  —  mine  got  lost 
last  night,  —  an'  blessed  if  he  ain't  stole  every 
pair  o'  oars  out  of  every  bo't.  An'  if  we  had 
'em,  it  'ud  be  no  go,  'cause  Benny's  bo't's 
lent  to  his  brother  to  go  after  smokewood, 
an'  Kellum  don't  even  own  one,  —  poor  old 
feller,  he  useter  own  a  schooner  once.  An'  the' 
ain't  a  stitch  o'  canvas  on  them  pinkies.  Oh, 
the  Old  Man  's  cute!  He  don't  mean  to  have 
you  git  off  this  island.  When  he  gits  'em 
lo'ded,  he  '11  go  up  to  the  house,  an'  whether 
you  're  there  or  not,  they  '11  raise  hell !  An' 
now  how  '11  we  stop  'em.^  We  ain't  got  no 
guns.  But  the'  's  axes  an'  bo't-hooks,"  he 
cried  savagely.  "We'll  do  for  some  one  'fore 
we  git  laid  out." 


90  BEACHED  KEELS 

"Powell  let  his  boat  go  adrift  last  spring," 
Archer  reflected,  with  bitterness.  "There  's 
just  one  way  to  get  help.    Swim  it." 

"By  the  Lord!"  cried  the  other,  astonished. 
Then  shaking  his  head,  "Can't  live  in  that 
cold  for  two  miles  an'  a  half.  An'  it 's  slack 
water  now.  By  young  flood  it  '11  be  the  whirl- 
pools." 

"  We  must  try  it,"  said  Archer.  "  It 's  been 
done  once,  years  ago.  I  must  take  the  chance. 
You  delay  them  down  there." 

Blue  Peter  thought  for  a  second,  then 
nodded  grimly.  "You  're  all  right,"  he  said. 
"  I  '11  put  a  spoke  in  his  wheel.  You  're  all 
right.  'T  won't  be  no  easy  job  for  'em."  He 
hesitated.  "Look  here,  somethin'  may  hap- 
pen. After  this  is  over,  —  if  she  comes  out 
of  it  all  right,  —  I  'm  off  for  good,  anyway. 
Nothin'  left  on  this  island  for  me.  The  poor 
little  kid  —  he  was  what  you  call  a  —  what  is 
it  ?  —  massacree  ?  no,  they  useter  tell  about 
'em  out  o'  the  Bible  —  'sacrafice'  the  word  ? 
Well,  he  was  bein'  spoilt  here  in  this  crowd. 
Might  'a'  gone  to  school  an'  learnt  some- 
thin'  ;  but  I  kep'  puttin'  it  oflf  —  usin'  him  to 


BLUE  PETER  91 

help  me  keep  an  eye  out  —  he  'd  he  up  here 
watchin',  whole  afternoons.  Might  'a'  done 
better  'n  me,  nearin'  thirty  an'  good  for  no- 
thin'  but  fish.  I  want  ye  to  promise  me  one 
thing,"  he  jerked  out.  "  Quick,  'cause  we  've 
been  standin'  here  talkin'  too  long." 

"I'll  promise  it,"  said  Archer. 

"Don't  tell  her  —  Helen,"  said  Blue  Peter, 
looking  down,  "  none  o'  what  I  told  ye  — 
'bout  me  or  the  boy  —  an'  our  doin's.     I 
knowed  some  one  'ud  come  along  like  you  — 
I  ain't  a  fool.    Just  you  promise  that." 

"All  right,  then,"  said  Archer.  Suddenly 
he  held  out  his  hand.  "  Peter,  you  're  the 
best  fellow  I  ever  knew  anywhere." 

Their  grip  was  strong  but  brief. 

"  I  wish  we  'd  'a'  growed  up  together  — 
Hugh,"  said  the  fisherman.  "Now  hurry. 
Swim  the  best  ye  know  how.  I  '11  hold  on  till 
you  get  back.  That 's  my  promise,  for  yours. 
I  '11  hold  'em." 

He  went  scrambling  downward  to  his  des- 
perate politics.  Archer  bounded  off  down 
the  slope,  through  the  field  and  the  frost- 
bitten rows  of  vegetables,  to  the  back  door. 


92  BEACHED  KEELS 

The  good  old  woman  was  lighting  her 
kitchen  fire.  He  cut  short  her  wrinkled 
smile  of  welcome. 

"Barbara,"  he  said,  snatching  a  bottle  of 
oil  from  her  shelf,  "I  must  frighten  you  a 
little,  but  you  must  stand  it,  for  Miss  Helen's 
sake.  There 's  danger  from  that  crowd  over 
in  Black  Harbor.  Just  how  much  I  can't 
say.  I  'm  going  across  to  the  town,  and  bring 
over  some  men  to  see  no  harm 's  done.  But 
meantime,  you  must  keep  the  house  shut 
up,  tight.    Don't  let  them  go  out,  or  any 


one  in." 


The  old  woman's  face  looked  very  white, 
but  there  was  pluck  in  her  eyes. 

"  It 's  for  Miss  Helen's  sake,"  he  repeated. 
"Keep  up  your  courage.    I  '11  be  back." 

"All  right,  Mr.  Archer,  sir,"  she  faltered. 
"I'll  do  it,  sir." 

He  was  off,  running  to  the  beach,  and 
along  it  northward,  to  make  his  start  as  far 
as  possible  above  the  line  where  the  whirl- 
pool might  appear.  Ripping  off  his  clothes, 
he  ran  naked  down  to  the  water's  edge, 
doused  the  oil  over  his  body,  and  rubbed 


BLUE  PETER  93 

hastily  till  the  great  white  muscles  glistened 
in  the  sun.  He  felt  hollow  from  lack  of  food 
and  sleep;  the  water  stretched  hopelessly  far 
to  the  mainland;  but  the  excitement  as  he 
ran  splashing  out,  and  the  cold  shock  of  the 
plunge,  set  his  heart  thumping  stoutly.  His 
first  thought  was  one  of  despair,  — "  It 's  too 
cold."  But  he  shut  his  mind  to  that,  and 
clove  his  way  ahead  through  the  bright 
green  water,  swimming  with  a  powerful  side 
stroke.  That  lowness  of  vision  over  a  flat 
surface  which  is  peculiar  to  swimming  made 
colors  and  lines  abnormally  distinct.  With 
his  cheek  gouging  through  the  water,  he 
could  see  the  ruddy  cliffs  retreating  behind 
him,  the  greenness  and  the  black  shadows  of 
little  trees  that  clung  in  crevices,  the  pink 
curve  of  the  beach,  the  shining,  shifting  lines 
of  the  water,  his  own  legs,  distorted  by  refrac- 
tion till  they  looked  ridiculously  pale  and 
green  and  thin,  kicking  away  like  alien 
marine  things  in  pursuit  of  his  body  and  of 
the  big,  glistening  deltoid  that  capped  his 
shoulder,  strongly  contracting  and  relaxing. 
Ahead,  as  he  shot  his  arm  forward,  appeared 


94  BEACHED  KEELS 

his  first  distance  mark,  a  white  can-buoy  two 
thirds  of  the  way  across  the  channel ;  beyond 
that,  a  broad  eddy  of  the  tide,  a  slightly 
raised  surface,  smooth  and  yellowish-white, 
like  a  sheet  of  ice,  where  hundreds  of  white 
gulls  wheeled  or  floated  in  search  of  break- 
fast; and  beyond  these  again,  the  wharves 
and  meagre  shipping  of  the  town,  —  the 
square-rigged  shapely  tangle  of  his  own  ship, 
the  Elizabeth  Fanning. 

The  numbness  began  to  leave  him,  though 
an  ice-cold  ring  circled  his  neck  where  wind 
and  water  met.  Like  all  swimmers,  he  grew 
confused  in  his  sense  of  time,  and  had  strange 
thoughts.  Halfway  to  the  can-buoy  now;  no 
longer  slack  water;  must  hurry.  A  half -eaten 
apple  came  bobbing  peacefully  toward  him 
on  the  young  flood.  He  wondered  who  had 
eaten  it,  and  whether  it  were  sweet  or  sour. 
But  where  the  devil  had  all  his  Latin  gone  to  ? 
Her  father  had  said  "enaviganda."  Did 
that  mean  it  could  be  swum  through,  or  it 
could  n't  ?  He  suffered  a  morbid  worry  over 
the  meaning  of  this  word,  as  if  it  contained 
the  secret  of  his  present  fate.    The  thing  had 


BLUE  PETER  95 

been  done  —  that  fellow  in  '56.  At  all  events, 
he  shifted  his  stroke  again,  and  swam  on 
tediously. 

Of  a  sudden  he  noticed  that  the  apple  was 
bearing  rapidly  down,  —  was  alongside,  on  a 
little  raised  rim  of  water  like  a  moving  flaw 
in  glass.  Next  instant  he  had  spun  about 
and  was  facing  seaward.  Something  below 
twirled  his  legs  violently. 

"Hello!"  he  sputtered  aloud.  "Good 
Lord!"  he  thought.  "This  is  bad.  I  must 
get  out  of  this." 

But  the  running  ocean  was  stronger.  The 
water  hissed,  curved  on  a  slant,  boiled  up- 
ward, regurgitated  in  patches  white  as  with 
melting  snowflakes.  A  submarine  force, 
gigantic  and  appalling,  spun  him  round  and 
round  and  whirled  him  downward.  He 
wrestled  frantically.  His  head  sank  inside  a 
wide  cylinder  of  smooth  green  glass,  laced 
about  spirally  with  running  silver  threads. 
His  ears,  long  deafened  by  the  noise  of  swim- 
ming, were  filled  with  a  strange  roar.  "  Whirl- 
pool !  It 's  all  up.  I  '11  see  where  it  goes  to, 
anyway,"  he  thought  insanely,  and  strained 


96  BEACHED  KEELS 

for  a  last  breath  as  he  shot  under.  In  a 
green  light  he  was  slatted  about  dreadfully, 
spinning  upright,  then  horizontal,  his  useless 
arms  and  legs  flying  wide  and  shaken.  A 
giant  weight,  a  personal,  hateful  weight, 
began  pressing  on  his  back,  pressing  him 
slowly  down  into  the  dark.  Acute  worry 
seized  him  because  this  thing  was  unfair  — 
would  not  give  him  a  chance  to  get  just  one 
more  breath  —  was  squeezing  him  down  into 
a  funnel,  and  he  did  not  think  the  bore  at  the 
end  was  big  enough  to  let  him  through. 
"Why,"  he  thought,  "why,  this  is  It!  This 
is  dying.  What  they  call  Death!  —  I  'm  very 
sorry  for  them  all  up  there."  And  then  he 
thought,  as  suddenly,  "Hold  on!  I  can't  yet, 
because  before  this  sort  of  thing  I  'm  due  to 
come  back  to  the  island,  —  I  've  drunk  from 
her  spring  —  Helen  —  that  was  the  agree- 
ment"—  But  still  he  was  pressed  downward, 
and  the  pain  grew  heavy  and  dull.  No  one 
would  ever  tell  her  of  the  cold,  the  dark,  the 
loneliness.  It  was  all  years  ago,  anyway,  and 
very  deep. 

Slowly  he  was  rising.     "Where  next?"  he 


BLUE  PETER  07 

thought  cynically.  Perhaps  it  was  over  now, 
and  this  was  just  the  fellow's  soul  going  up, 
up.  "  No,  by  golly,  there  's  too  much  pain 
about  it.  It 's  lighter  —  The  sun  —  It 's  me, 
and  I  'm  out  —  Air!" 

He  struck  out  in  leaden  imitation  of  swim- 
ming, just  to  take  it  up  where  he  had  left  off; 
then  stopped;  then  began  again.  He  was 
more  interested  in  a  pale  thing  that  accom- 
panied him,  large  and  speckled,  like  a  potato, 
but  twitching  round  the  edges,  round  the 
nostrils.  "  Why,  it 's  my  nose,  and  I  've  got 
one  eye  shut.  How  silly!"  The  humor  of 
this  woke  him  up,  and  now  he  really  swam. 
"I  've  wasted  a  lot  of  time  down  there,"  he 
mourned. 

Something  large,  white,  and  round  came 
rushing  at  him  through  the  water.  The 
can-buoy,  —  the  tide  was  carrying  him  past, 
he  must  n't  lose  that.  He  lashed  out  for  it 
blindly,  and  managed  to  be  flung  against 
the  slope.  Though  it  dipped,  swayed,  and 
rolled,  he  slowly  climbed  up,  over  barnacles 
and  painted  sheet-iron,  to  where  he  could 
grasp  the  iron  ring  at  the  top.    It  must  have 


98  BEACHED  KEELS 

been  for  a  long  time  that  he  clung  there. 
The  tiny  knives  of  the  barnacles  had  sliced 
his  legs,  and  blood  ran  in  slow,  red  streams 
through  the  hair  on  his  shins.  "  It 's  all  up," 
he  reflected,  watching  the  tide  race  by.  "  I  've 
come  through  the  upper  tip-edge  of  the 
whirlpools,  off  there.  Just  a  baby  one  that 
got  me;  but  it's  done  the  trick.  This  is  a 
mighty  poor  exhibition.  What  will  Peter  say, 
and  Helen  .^"  The  only  answer  was  despair; 
he  grew  colder  and  weaker,  his  aching  fingers 
loosened,  time  dragged  on,  and  he  longed  to 
go  to  sleep. 

There  came  a  puffing  from  somewhere. 
He  looked  up  to  see  a  smoky,  brindle-colored 
tug  off  to  the  left,  making  for  the  town.  He 
waved  one  arm,  and  gave  a  feeble  hail. 
Nothing  happened.  He  tried  again  and 
again,  without  much  hope.  At  last  she  gave 
a  short  toot  of  her  whistle,  came  about, 
headed  toward  him,  turned  near  at  hand, 
and  stood  off  in  a  lathering  wake.  Two 
staring  men  lifted  him  precariously  into  a 
rowboat,  and  pulled  back  through  the  sweep 
of  tide. 


BLUE  PETER  99 

"How  many  men  have  you  got  aboard?" 
he  kept  asking,  as  plainly  as  he  could  for 
the  chatter  of  his  teeth. 

"He  's  bughouse,"  flatly  asserted  the  man 
at  the  oars.  "Lord,  he  's  blue  as  my  shirt. 
Git  him  down  into  the  engine-room.  Spike, 
an'  give  him  a  slug  o'  whiskey.  —  What  'd 
ye  try  to  swim  it  fer  ?  —  No  use  askin',  he  's 
bughouse." 

Then  all  that  Archer  remembered  was 
being  lowered  into  the  warm  depths  of  the 
tug,  and  standing  before  the  red  blaze  of  the 
furnace  door,  with  the  water  forming  inky 
puddles  round  his  feet  in  the  coal  dust.  And 
the  deck-hands  choked  him  with  vile  Irish 
whiskey.  Then  he  found  himself  talking 
lucidly  with  a  fat,  jovial,  and  astonished 
captain,  and,  by  a  last  effort  of  the  will, 
making  him  understand  that  he.  Archer, 
this  naked  swimmer,  could  pay  a  hundred 
dollars  to  have  a  posse  of  men  taken  over  at 
once  to  the  island.  And  then  they  had 
touched  at  a  wharf,  where  dozens  of  men  had 
sprung  aboard,  shinning  down  the  slimy 
green  spilings.    The  tug  was  off  again.    The 


100  BEACHED  KEELS 

engineer  gave  him  cotton  waste  to  rub  down 
with,  and  dressed  him  in  a  blue  jumper  and 
overalls.  They  sped  past  the  can-buoy  again, 
where  already  the  whirlpools  had  vanished 
in  the  tide.  Throughout  this  dream  every 
one  was  wonderfully  kind  to  him,  and 
seemed  to  think  him  a  decent  fellow,  some- 
how. The  captain  introduced  him  formally 
to  Sheriff  Moriarty,  a  keen,  elderly  man  with 
a  gnawed  mustache,  who  asked  many  ques- 
tions briskly,  and  kept  repeating,  "Always 
said  so.  Knew  something  of  the  kind  would 
happen.  Old  man  Powell 's  a  fool.  I  knew 
it."  And  then  in  admiration,  "  Young  man, 
there  's  few  could  have  swum  to  that  boo-y 
at  any  time  of  tide." 

Yet  all  this  was  unreal;  it  was  only  when 
they  steamed  into  the  cove,  and  could  see 
the  close-shuttered  house,  that  men  and 
things  seemed  to  Archer  more  than  a  tangled 
farce  of  dreams.  Three  boatloads  pulled 
quickly  landward.  But  as  they  rowed. 
Archer  saw  a  little  squad  of  men  appear  over 
the  slope,  running  toward  the  house;  and  a 
man  in  a  blue  jersey  was  running  with  the 


BLUE  PETEI^     .  ,  , ,   ,  101 

first  of  them.    The  island  wa^yery  still  in  l^he 
growing  warmth  of  late  forenooUi^^o  i^    >  i  {5 


VII 

The  battering  of  blows  on  the  door  came 
down  to  them  while  they  struggled  up  the 
sand,  more  boatloads  racing  after  them;  but 
when  they  reached  the  field,  they  saw  the 
little  mob  still  outside,  swarming  like  hornets 
round  the  doorstep.  Something  had  checked 
them:  there  was  a  surge  of  conflict,  but  no 
advance.  As  the  townsmen  ran  up  the  slope, 
two  figures  rolled  down  past  them,  —  the 
dark  Indian  face  of  Sebattis,  who  was  trying 
to  bite  a  white  man's  ear,  —  both  growling 
and  punching  in  a  drunken  dog-fight  entirely 
beside  the  point  of  the  main  quarrel.  Some 
of  the  less  eager  among  the  sheriff's  men 
stopped  to  separate  them,  but  Archer  and 
the  others  swept  on.  Already  a  few  of  the 
gang  scattered  from  the  door  in  flight,  run- 
ning unsteadily  round  the  house  and  up 
through  the  vegetable  garden.  One  man 
fell  blindly  through  the  beanpoles,  with  loud 


102  BEACHED  KEELS 

oaths  and  breakage.  Those  who  stood  their 
g^oUjid'  "had  'their  backs  turned,  and  were 
apparently  absorbed  in  something  before 
them. 

While  he  raced,  Archer  saw  what  it  was. 
Before  the  broken  panels  of  the  door  old 
Lehaneand  Peter  stood  in  a  clinch  so  desperate 
that  the  rest  had  fallen  back  to  watch  them. 
Even  in  the  heat  of  running  Archer  could 
see  the  wrench  of  muscles  under  the  blue 
jersey  of  the  one  and  the  coat,  green  with 
age,  that  covered  the  broad  back  of  the 
other.  Peter,  with  both  hands  aloft,  gripped 
Lehane's  wrist  so  that  a  pistol  pointed  sky- 
ward; but  round  his  own  throat  a  great, 
fat  hand  was  murderously  at  work.  Both 
bodies,  the  lithe  and  the  bulky,  were  strained 
to  the  last  fibre. 

"Old  fool!"  grunted  Peter.  His  eyes  were 
almost  shut  against  the  sun,  the  blue  veins 
showed  like  a  Biblical  seal  on  his  forehead. 
"Quit  it!"  A  sudden  ripple  of  tense  motion 
ran  through  his  body  from  boot-heel  to  wrist. 
There  was  a  sound  like  a  stick  snapping. 

"Ah!"  bellowed  the  big  man.    The  pistol 


BLUE  PETER  103 

fell.  Archer  and  the  others  breasted  the 
bright  surge  of  flowers  in  the  garden,  and 
ran  upon  them  all  in  a  victorious  scuffle.  It 
was  more  than  two  to  one,  and  with  old 
Lehane  surrounded,  the  fight  was  laughably 
simple. 

Archer  found  himself  shoving  off  an  over- 
zealous  deck-hand  who  would  have  seized 
Kellum.  The  old  man  sat  against  the  red 
stone  wall,  his  little  knees  drawn  up  with  a 
comical  air  of  comfort,  but  a  red  stream 
from  his  cheekbone  trickling  into  his  yellow- 
stained  beard. 

"He  hit  me  a  proper  hard  poke,"  he 
was  muttering,  dazed  but  philosophic.  "It 
could  n't  'a'  come  square  on,  though." 

Helen  appeared  from  somewhere  with 
towels,  a  basin,  and  a  bottle.  Her  brown 
eyes  sought  Archer's  for  one  bright  instant, 
and  then  she  was  at  work  over  Kellum,  deftly 
and  sensibly.  The  old  man  looked  up  at  her 
like  a  dirty,  bearded  child. 

"Ye  done  well,  Hugh,"  said  the  deep 
voice  of  Peter.  The  two  big  men  grinned  at 
each  other  like  schoolboys.    Peter  was  breath- 


104  BEACHED  KEELS 

ing  short,  and  wore  round  his  throat  the  red 
stripes  from  the  old  man's  fingers.  "To 
speak  plain,  ye  done  better 'n  I  thought  ye 
could.    'T  was  an  awful  resk." 

"  I  have  n't  done  so  much  as  you,"  replied 
Archer.  He  meant  far  more  than  this,  for 
new  and  strange  thoughts  had  been  swarming 
in  his  mind  through  all  this  tumult.  "  Nothing 
like,  Peter." 

Both  men  had  stopped  smiling. 

"It  was  both  of  us,  —  both  fer  the  same 
thing,  anyway,"  the  fisherman  said.  "  'T  was 
a  narrer  squeak,"  he  added,  with  forced 
cheerfulness.  "We  hadn't  ought  ter  com- 
plain, 'cept  fer  the  boy."  He  turned  away 
slowly,  and  walked  a  little  distance  down  the 
field,  where  Archer  did  not  follow  him.  In 
the  mean  time  Helen  had  disappeared. 

Farther  down  the  slope  old  Lehane  was 
raving  in  the  midst  of  a  group.  "Leggo, 
damn  ye,  my  arm 's  broke,  —  no  need  o' 
grabbin'  that  way.  That's  the  feller,  up 
there,  —  the  red-headed  one  in  the  overhalls; 
he  done  fer  Beaky,  I  tell  ye." 

"That'll  all  come  out   at  the  inquest," 


BLUE  PETER  105 

Sheriff  Moriarty  called  down  to  him.  "  Take 
him  over  to  town  and  get  his  arm  set,"  he 
ordered,  and  came  stalking  upward  to  engage 
in  conversation  with  Mr.  Powell.  The  scholar 
had  now  ventured  out,  pale  and  bewildered, 
into  the  sunlit  flower  garden;  and  over  the 
tangle  of  sweet  peas  Archer  could  see  him 
shaking  hands  timidly  with  the  sheriff,  like  a 
mild  curate  receiving  congratulations  on  a  dis- 
course. The  sheriff  was  introducing  several 
other  men. 

"Mr.  Powell,"  he  said  briskly,  "I  want 
you  to  know  my  brothers,  Mr.  John  Moriarty, 
and  Mr.  Michael,  and  Mr.  Florence  Moriarty; 
he's  a  lawyer,  sir,  and  may  be  able  to  help 
you  about  this  matter  of  the  squatting;  and 
Mr.  Hugh  Moriarty,  that  I  think  you've 
dealt  with  in  groceries;  and  Mr.  Ferris,  my 
half-brother,  sir." 

The  pale  little  man  shook  hands  very 
precisely,  all  round.  "  I  am  glad  to  meet  you, 
sir,"  he  repeated,  without  an  inkling  of  what 
this  intrusion  from  the  great  world  was  all 
about.  "Ah,  Mr.  Ferris,  —  non  omnis  Mori- 
arty,'' he  chirped,  and  in  spite  of  the  blank 


106  BEACHED  KEELS 

looks  from  the  group  of  kinsmen,  was  visibly 
pleased  with  his  joke. 

Archer  turned  to  Kellum.  The  old  cap- 
tain was  not  much  hurt;  in  fact,  after  Helen's 
ministration  he  seemed  almost  neat,  and 
looked  up  with  sage  and  weatherbeaten 
resignation.  They  fell  into  the  friendly  talk 
of  allies,  in  which  Archer  caught,  by  the 
light  of  many  a  homely  phrase,  glimpses  of 
how  Peter  had  played  for  time,  played  with 
craft  and  force,  delaying,  desperately  delay- 
ing, the  drunken  crew  in  the  harbor.  Yes, 
it  all  strengthened  what  he  himself  had  been 
thinking. 

"He's  a  good  lad.  Blue  Peter,"  said  the 
old  man,  stanching  his  cut  with  gingerly  dabs 
of  Helen's  handkerchief.  "  We  call  him  that 
for  a  joke.  He 's  a  good  lad,  the  only  one 
o'  the  lot,  an'  he'll  be  goin'  away  now,  he 
tells  me.  He  seems  dretful  cut  up  about  the 
boy.  Well,  they'll  most  all  be  goin'  in  a 
month,  fer  the  winter.  It 's  only  a  summer 
camp,  —  'cep'  fer  a  few  of  us,  the  devil's 
orts,  that  has  to  stay  all  the  year  round." 

"  Captain  Kellum,"  asked  Archer  suddenly. 


BLUE  PETER  107 

"what  would  you  do  if  you  had  your  choice, 
instead  of  staying  here?" 

The  little  old  sailor  wagged  his  yellow 
beard  sadly.  ' "  T  ain't  no  use  talkin'  so.  But 
by  the  powers,"  he  ejaculated,  "if  I  had  the 
money,  I'd  buy  back  the  Regina.  Lyons 
'ud  sell  'er;  he  wants  a  bigger  bo't.  Some 
fools  '11  tell  ye  a  centreboard  schooner 's  no  ' 
good,"  he  cried,  warming  with  enthusiasm. 
"But  she,  —  I  had  'er  fourteen  year,  an'  'ud 
hev'  'er  yit  but  fer  bad  luck,  —  why,  she  'd 
go  like  —  like  a  horse !  The'  ain't  much 
left  fer  ye,  my  boy,  when  ye  come  to  my  age, 
p'r'aps.  But  I  'd  ask  nothin'  better  than  jes' 
to  come  up  on  deck  again  on  a  winter  mornin' 
and  see  where  the  vessel 's  lyin'." 

"If  I  buy  her,"  said  Archer,  "will  you  take 
her  and  pay  me  a  quarter  of  what  she  brings 
you  in  two  years?  She's  yours  on  those 
terms." 

The  old  man's  eyes  peered  at  him,  hard 
and  bright  at  this  cruel  joke. 

"  Where  'd  ye  git  the  money  ?  "  he  retorted. 

"I  've  got  enough  for  that,"  replied  Archer, 
laughing.      "What  do   you   say?     I'll   get 


108  BEACHED  KEELS 

Moriarty  to  telegraph  Lyons  to-day,  when  he 
goes  over.  You  say  he  '11  sell.  You  can  go 
aboard  the  first  of  the  week." 

Captain  Kellum  was  astonished  at  this 
magic. 

"Why,"  he  faltered,  "if  ye  mean  it — 
'T  ain't  a  fair  bargain  to  you,  but  if  ye  mean 
it" —  His  old  face  looked  very  queer  and 
puzzled. 

Helen  was  coming  from  the  house. 

"I  mean  it.  Think  it  over,"  said  Archer, 
as  he  moved  away  to  meet  her.  By  tacit 
assent  they  walked  together  apart  from  the 
groups  of  men,  past  the  house,  between  the 
rows  of  frost-bitten  vegetables.  Her  hair 
shone  once  more  with  bronze  gleams  in  the 
sunshine.  He  felt  infinitely  glad  to  be  with 
her  again,  as  if  he  had  come  back  to  her  after 
a  long  time  and  from  a  far  country,  —  indeed, 
from  the  dark  limbo  of  the  farthest  country, 
where  time  is  unknown.  She  was  good  to 
look  upon;  he  loved  her  with  all  his  heart; 
yet  what  should  have  been  happiness  was 
overpowered  with  sorrow  and  self-reproach. 

"Tell  me,"  she  asked  in  her  quiet  voice, 


BLUE  PETER  109 

"what  is  it  all  about?  I'm  in  the  dark. 
You  look  so  funny  in  those  dirty  things,  and 
barefoot.    What  does  it  all  mean  —  Hugh  ?" 

He  answered  her  smile  at  this  first  use  of  his 
name.  Then  very  seriously  he  explained  it 
all,  —  the  fight  in  the  dark,  what  he  had  done 
by  water  that  morning,  what  Peter  had  done 
by  land;  everything  save  what  his  promise  to 
Peter  forbade  him  to  tell.  Her  clear  brown 
face  was  alight  and  alive  with  the  swift- 
changing  emotions.  When  he  had  ended 
this  story  of  rough  deeds,  she  was  deeply 
moved  and  silent;  but  he  knew  she  had  ac- 
quitted him  of  his  worst  responsibility. 

"But  why,"  she  asked  in  a  puzzled  way, 
"  why  did  that  old  man  think  it  started  about 
me?   What  have  I"— 

She  had  gone  so  straight  to  the  point  that 
he  was  both  amused  and  dismayed. 

"You  mustn't  ask  me  that  now,  Helen," 
he  answered.  "  I  've  promised  not  to  tell  it 
all"— 

"Not  to  me?"  she  asked,  disappointed. 

"  Just  that,"  he  assented  soberly.  "Not  to 
you."     In  the  long  silence  he  stooped  and 


110  BEACHED  KEELS 

plucked  at  the  withered  tops  of  potatoes. 
"  Oh,  Helen ! "  he  broke  out  at  last.  "  It 's  that 
that  worries  me  and  makes  me  ashamed,  — 
the  promise,  and  a  great  deal  more  that  I  've 
been  thinking  all  the  way  over,  through  it 
all.  I  'm  ashamed.  I  came  here,"  he  hurried 
on  breathlessly,  "I  came  here  and  stole  it 
from  you,  all  at  once,  as  if  I  'd  been  the  only 
man  in  the  world,  —  or  the  best,  —  without 
giving  you  a  chance,  even,  to  know  what  the 
others  were  like — Oh,  I'm  ashamed!"  he 
cried.  "  It  was  like  a  cad,  —  it  was  n't  fair 
to  you,  dear." 

Her  face  had  turned  pale  in  the  sunlight. 

"Are  you  sorry .^"  she  asked,  with  a  cold 
voice  that  was  not  her  own,  and  that  did  not 
conceal  her  distress  and  fear. 

"  No,"  he  cried  eagerly.  "  It 's  the  happiest 
and  truest  thing  in  my  life.  Oh,  don't  you 
see  why  ?  It 's  just  because  it  is  n't  fair  to 
you.  I  wanted  you  to  know  that  there  were 
better  fellows,  off  the  island  —  and  on  it. 
Here  goes  my  word!"  he  exclaimed  in  dis- 
may. "I  can't  keep  it.  You  said,  the  other 
time,  that  you  never  used  to  feel  alone,  —  that 


BLUE  PETER  111 

there  was  a  kind  of  —  of  presence,  you  said, 
among  the  trees  and  places.  Well,  there 
was."  And  he  told  her  all  that  Peter  had 
said  that  morning.  "There,  I've  broken 
my  promise  to  him.  But  it's  best.  He's  given 
up  everything,  thought,  and  care,  and  work, 
and  his  little  brother,  and  I  just  came  along 
and  stole  it.  Why,  Helen,  you  grew  up  in  a 
kind  of  garden,  —  an  enchanted  garden  you 
might  have  played  it  was,  —  and  this  man 
built  and  kept  the  walls  round  it,  walls  you 
could  n't  see.  And  what  am  I  before  a  man 
like  that.^  Just  look,  without  any  make- 
believe.  We  have  n't  even  talked  things  over 
as  we  were  going  to  this  morning.  But  see. 
I  've  run  away  from  everything  —  just  drifted 
along  —  never  thought  much  —  took  chances 
—  only  had  good  luck.    Don't  you  see  ?" 

She  surveyed  him  oddly.  In  her  eyes  was 
a  shine  as  of  transfiguration,  but  he  could  not 
understand  it. 

"You're  very  young  about  some  things," 
she  said.  "Younger  than  I  —  years.  Did  n't 
you  see,  up  there  —  can't  you  remember  — 
that  our  one  look  —  and  what  it  meant  ? 


m  BEACHED  KEELS 

Did  n't  you  see  that  it  settled  it  all  ?  I  know 
there  are  other  men,  and  noble  and  good  — 
the  world  full  of  them  —  not  getting  their 
deserts  —  deserts  much  bigger  than  a  girl 
like  me.  I  know  that.  But  what  of  it? 
This  Peter,  oh,  I  'm  sorry  for  him,  and  grate- 
ful, and  he  must  be  wonderfully  good.    But 

—  don't  you  see.^"  she  begged  helplessly. 
"I  can't  explain  —  but  if  you  don't  —  if  you 
have  the  least  doubt  —  then  we  've  made  a 
mistake" —  Her  eyes  shone  pitifully  and 
her  lip  trembled. 

"Helen,  you  know  I  couldn't,"  he  said, 
frightened  at  the  thought.  **  You  know  that. 
Why,  when  I  was  in  the  whirlpool,  and  it  on 
my  back  —  this  Death  your  father  spins 
words  about  —  pressing  me  down,  what  do 
you  suppose  I  thought  ?  Just  that  I  could  n't 
die  then,  because  the  drink  from  your  spring, 

—  our  poor  little  foolish  game,  lasting  through 
it  all,  right  to  the  end  of  everything,  down 
there  in  the  dark.  Oh,  just  believe  that!  I 
can't  explain,  either,  half  of  it." 

The  color  of  reassurance  came  back  to  her 
cheeks. 


BLUE  PETER  113 

"Look,"  he  said,  pointing  before  them. 
They  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  shriveled 
rows,  where  a  lane  went  by  to  the  pastures  on 
the  northern  headland.  "This  will  help. 
See,  this  puddle  of  water  here,  where  your 
cow  's  been  drinking.  It 's  full  of  her  hoof- 
marks,  and  shallow,  and  dirty,  and  everything. 
Now  stand  over  here." 

Moving  away,  they  leaned  forward  together 
and  looked.  The  light  so  caught  the  little 
surface  that  the  water  was  deep  as  the  sky, 
and  the  clouds  and  the  blue  air  were  in  it. 

"  There,  you  see.  That 's  my  life,  before 
you,  and  since.    I  don't  know  how  else"  — 

The  girl  was  the  first  to  speak  again. 

"I  can't  tell  you  so  well,"  she  said.  "But 
the  long  winter  evenings  with  the  snow  against 
the  panes,  —  and  the  summer  nights  and  no 
one  to  talk  to,  —  there  '11  be  no  more  of 
those."  Then  she  changed,  happily  mocking 
his  sober  face.  "  Parables  in  puddles,  —  and 
a  preacher  in  blue  overalls."  They  both 
laughed. 

"I  know,"  he  confessed.  "But  I  've  been 
through  something  that 's  made  me  preach 


114  BEACHED  KEELS 

these  things  to  myself.  And  two  persons  I 
met  this  morning,  one  on  the  island,  and  one 
in  the  water.  —  Let 's  not  talk  about  it.  But 
I  'm  not  going  to  let  things  go  to  waste  any 
longer,  or  run  away.  Old  Kellum  's  happy; 
there  's  a  beginning,  and  there  are  lots  of 
chances.  You  're  at  the  bottom  of  it  all.  If 
we  could  only  do  something  for  Peter  " — 

Helen  looked  thoughtfully  down  toward  the 
house  and  the  cove. 

"  Poor  fellow,"  she  said  at  last.  *'  I  'm  glad 
you  told  me.  I  must  talk  with  him,  though  it 
will  be  very  hard  for  us  both.  Let 's  go  back 
now;  and  good-by,  for  a  while,  dear.  Oh, 
you  '11  tell  my  father  soon,  won't  you  ?  It 's 
best  not  to  keep  the  truth  hidden.  Good-by. 
You  've  no  more  doubts .?" 

"Not  one!"  he  answered  earnestly.  "I 
wish  I  could  do  it  for  you  —  this" — 

"No,"  she  said.  "You  did  your  part  this 
morning.  There  are  other  hard  things  that 
only  a  woman  can  do." 

From  the  little  flower  garden,  all  crushed 
and  torn  with  the  recent  scuflBe,  they  saw  the 
men  moving  away,   part  climbing  the  hill 


BLUE  PETER  115 

toward  the  harbor,  part  returning  to  the 
beach.  At  the  edge  of  the  slope  toward  the 
cove,  Peter,  alone  in  the  field,  stood  looking 
toward  the  mainland.  Helen  walked  slowly 
down  toward  him. 

Archer  pattered  indoors  barefoot,  and  at 
the  desk  in  the  dark  corner  of  the  library 
began  a  letter. 

"Powell's  Island,  Wednesday. 
"  To  Captain  Berry, 

Barkentine  Elizabeth  Fanning. 
"My  dear  Sir: 

"An  accident  involving  the  death  of  two 
persons" — 

Her  father's  commonplace  book  lay  open 
before  him.  As  he  cast  about  for  the  right 
words,  his  eye  lighted  on  a  recent  addition  in 
the  scholar's  neat  manuscript:  — 

^^Schopenhauer:  Metaphysics  of  Love, — 
This  ablest  of  modern  thinkers  has  said  very 
wisely :  *  And  yet,  amid  all  this  turmoil  we  see 
a  pair  of  lovers  exchanging  longing  glances,  — 
but  why  so  secretly,  timidly,  and  furtively.^ 
Because  these  lovers  are  traitors  secretly 
striving  to  perpetuate   all  this   misery  and 


116  BEACHED  KEELS 

turmoil  that  otherwise  would  come  to  a  timely 
end.' " 

"Hm!" — he  pondered.  "It  seems  her 
father  may  not  need  so  much  information  as 
we  supposed.  She  fails  as  an  actress,"  he 
thought  with  joy.  Then  he  took  the  liberty  of 
closing  the  book  and  putting  it  away  in  the 
scholar's  drawer,  where  Helen  should  not  see 
the  odious  words.  He  sat  thinking.  "Old 
Lehane  was  not  the  worst  person  she  must  be 
saved  from,"  he  concluded. 

Through  the  battered  door  she  entered,  her 
face  streaked  with  tears.  She  went  swiftly  to 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  then  turned,  fled  to  him, 
and  for  an  instant  stood  with  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders  and  her  tousled  head  pressed 
against  him. 

"Oh,  Hugh,"  she  whispered.  "He  is  a 
good  man.  And  so  were  you  to  tell  me.  The 
little  boy  is  to  be  —  we  agreed  —  up  there  by 
Arthur's  cross.  It 's  little  enough,  is  n't  it  ? 
He  is  a  good  man." 

She  hurried  from  him  and  up  the  stairs. 
When  her  door  had  closed,  Archer  turned  to 
the  window,  and  stood  looking  out. 


BLUE  PETER  117 

"I  could  punch  the  face  of  that  ablest 
modern  thinker,"  he  said  to  himself.  "For 
he  's  a  liar.  Peter  is  worth  a  thousand  of 
him." 

Out  on  the  pitch  of  the  slope,  the  tall  figure, 
black  against  the  shining  channel,  stood  look- 
ing off  at  the  mainland. 

"But  sometimes,"  said  Archer  to  himself, 
"we  build  our  happiness  at  the  expense  of 
others" — 

A  footstep  grated  lightly  on  the  stone,  and 
the  scholar  entered,  looking  fatigued. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Archer,"  he  said  kindly,  "you 
two  young  men  have  done  very  well  by  us,  it 
seems,  in  some  mysterious  way." 

"  Not  I,  sir,"  said  Archer.  "  I  only  brought 
this  trouble  on  you.  I  'm  sorry  to  give  you  all 
such  a  bad  morning." 

But  his  host's  mind  was  already  off  the 
subject. 

"  I  went  down  thinking  to  comfort  that  old 
fisherman  about  his  son,"  he  explained. 
"But  I  found  it  quite  impossible,  he  is  so 
violent  in  his  grief.  That  was  a  fine  saying  of 
Solon's,"  he  mused,  "an  heroic  reply  to  the 


118  BEACHED  KEELS 

news  of  his  son's  death,  'I  knew  that  I  had 
begotten  a  mortal  being.'  Or  was  it  Anaxa- 
goras,  as  some  say,  or  Xenophon  ?  But  that 
is  the  pathos  of  the  past;  the  truth  of  matters 
becomes  obscured." 

He  looked  very  worn  and  white  as  he  sank 
into  the  big  armchair. 

"He  's  been  through  a  good  deal  to-day  — 
for  him,"  thought  the  young  man.  "We  '11 
let  it  wait  till  to-morrow.  I  'd  better  go  down 
for  my  clothes  before  the  tide  gets  them." 

"Obscured  or  lost,"  added  Mr.  Powell. 
"And  the  future  holds  only  one  certainty" — 


II 

WILD    JUSTICE 


WILD    JUSTICE 


WEIGHING  ANCHOR 


It  was  in  the  dark,  before  dawn  of  a  Decem- 
ber morning,  that  Marden  Sebright  woke. 
Some  vague  stirring  below  had  called  him  out 
of  troubled  sleep  to  a  still  more  troubled  wak- 
ing. For  an  instant  he  lay  staring  at  the  faint 
blur  of  the  window,  aware  only  of  that  and  of 
a  world  of  unhappiness.  Then  he  remem- 
bered. It  was  the  last  morning  at  home. 
His  mother  was  up  and  about.  He  rose, 
ashamed,  groped  round  in  the  dark,  broke  the 
ice  in  the  tin  basin  on  the  stand,  dashed  the 
cold  water  over  his  hands,  face,  and  head, 
fumbled  into  his  clothes,  and  felt  his  way 
slowly  down  the  narrow  stairs  that  led  be- 
tween lath  walls  from  the  loft  rooms  to  the 
kitchen. 

"Good-morning,  dear,"  said  his  mother's 
voice,  as  the  door  shut  clinking  behind  him. 

The  room  was  lighted  by  one  kerosene 


122  BEACHED  KEELS 

lamp  that  burned  pale  and  strangely  yellow 
on  the  bare  table  near  the  window.  In  the 
white  frost  on  the  pane  it  had  melted  watery 
circles,  through  which  shone  the  winter  dawn, 

—  the  deep,  sad,  mysterious  blue  that  is 
neither  darkness  nor  daylight. 

"Good-morning,  mother,"  said  Marden 
quietly.  With  his  hand  still  on  the  latch  of 
the  little  deal  door,  he  stood  looking  at  her. 
She  had  just  taken  a  lid  from  the  stove,  and 
through  the  open  circle  below  thin  tongues  of 
flame  quivered  upward,  showing  her  plainly, 

—  this  little  woman  in  black,  with  gray  hair 
and  gray  eyes,  who  stood  in  the  flickering 
light  and  smiled  at  him.  She  looked  very 
beautiful  to  him  then.  And  she  must  have 
looked  so  to  others  once;  years  ago  she  must 
have  been  an  English  "hawk  blonde"  of  the 
gentler  type,  —  a  type  that  appeared  with  a 
difference  in  Marden's  thin,  fine  features  and 
bright  gray  eyes. 

Now,  as  he  stood  looking  at  her,  her  eyes 
were  large  and  shining. 

"Why,  mother,"  he  said  before  he  thought, 
"  you  have  n't  been  crying,  have  you  ?  " 


WILD   JUSTICE  ns 

She  put  the  lid  slowly  back.  Like  all  the 
other  pieces  in  the  top  of  the  stove,  it  was  bent 
and  warped  with  age.  It  fell  into  place  clat- 
tering. The  fire  crackled,  and  shone  through 
the  gaps  and  chinks  in  the  uneven  surface. 
Then  came  a  silence,  so  long  that  while 
mother  and  son  stood  there  looking  at  each 
other  it  seemed  to  Harden  as  if  his  words 
still  sounded  in  the  quiet  room,  and  as  if  they 
had  not  been  said  gently  enough. 

When  she  spoke,  her  voice  was  quite  steady, 
a  sweet  and  level  voice. 

"Yes,  Marden,  I  have  been,  a  little." 

"Oh" — he  broke  out,  then  stopped 
blankly,  and  turned  to  another  question. 
"What  did  you  come  down  and  build  the 
fire  and  do  all  these  things  for  ?  You  might 
have  let  me,  this  —  this  " — 

"I  wanted  to  do  it  for  once,"  she  said 
simply. 

He  crossed  the  room  at  a  stride,  and  they 
kissed  each  other.  There  were  no  further 
words  between  them,  and  no  further  glances. 
But  as  they  moved  about  the  bare  little  room, 
bringing  the  knives  and  spoons  and  the  cheap. 


124  BEACHED  KEELS 

heavy  dishes  from  the  shelves  to  the  table, 
they  stayed  very  close  together.  It  was 
meagre  diet  on  the  pine  table,  —  a  few  slices 
of  bread,  two  bowls  of  steaming  oatmeal,  and 
cold  water  in  the  clumsy  cups  that  were  meant 
to  hold  coffee. 

As  they  sat  down,  Mrs.  Sebright  thriftily 
blew  out  the  lamp,  and  left  the  room  in 
dusk. 

"The  sun's  rising  already,"  she  said. 

And  indeed  it  was:  through  the  watery 
circles  in  the  panes  they  could  see  that  the 
mysterious  deep  blue  had  gone,  and  that  a 
gray  light  was  slowly  turning  into  day. 

They  both  sat  peering  through  the  frosty 
window. 

"Can  you  see  her?"  asked  his  mother. 

Marden  winced. 

"No,"  he  answered.  "Not  yet.  But  of 
course  she  's  still  there." 

Silence  fell  once  more,  while  both  made  a 
pretense  of  eating.  His  mother  was  the  first 
to  speak  again. 

"  It 's  ten  days  to  Christmas,"  she  said,  then 
paused,  and  then  went  on  timidly,  "Sicily's 


WILD   JUSTICE  125 

a  long  voyage.  Remember  about  writing  to 
me,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  mother,"  said  he;  "I'll  write  on 
board,  and  mail  it  the  first  time  we  land." 

"Lee  said  he  would,"  she  continued  sadly; 
"  and  it 's  been  ten  years  now  without  a  word 
beyond  hearsay.  But  you  're  not  like  Lee, 
dear." 

"Lee!"  cried  the  younger  son  in  a  hard 
voice.  "  Lee !  O  mother,  if  ever  I  meet 
him !  —  No,  no,  o'  course  I  must  n't  —  I 
wouldn't"  — 

"  No,  dear,  you  must  n't.  Lee  meant  — 
he 's  different.  He 's  more  like  —  Some  men 
don't  think  much  about  such  things!"  She 
paused,  and  sighed.  "  When  a  boy  goes  out 
into  the  world,  and  to  sea —  Dear,  you 
must  never,  never  forget  what  I  warned  you 
against.  It  was  so  hard  to  tell  you,  but  your 
father  —  poor  John,  I  'm  afraid  he  was  n't 
always  a  good  man." 

"Always!"  cried  Marden,  his  cheeks  glow- 
ing and  his  gray  eyes  flashing  in  the  twilight. 
"  Good!  See  where  we  are  now,  through  him 
and  Lee.    Poor,  and  half-starved,  and  ragged. 


126  BEACHED  KEELS 

and  shivering,  in  this  mean  Httle  dead  town; 
and  me  having  to  go  to  sea  to  keep  us  both 
aHve,  and  leaving  you  alone  in  winter!" 

"Hush,  Harden,  hush,"  his  mother  said, 
and  there  were  tears  in  her  voice.  "We 
must  n't  be  bitter  —  this  morning  of  all 
others.  We  ought  to  be  glad,  too,  that  Cap- 
tain Harlow  is  so  good  to  us,  for  if  it  was  n't 
for  him  I  don't  know  how  we'd  weather 
through  till  spring." 

Marden  made  some  inarticulate  sound. 
Then  he  fell  to  eating,  as  a  lad  of  twenty 
must,  in  spite  of  sorrow.  Slowly  through  the 
frosty  panes  came  the  first  of  the  sunlight,  and 
shone  faintly  upon  the  old  shotgun  and  the 
powderhorn  hung  high  on  the  wall  behind 
the  stove,  and  upon  the  picture  below,  — 
a  picture  stifily  daubed  in  blue,  black,  and 
white  of  "the  Bark  Gilderoy  off  Tristan  da 
Cunha."  Over  these  and  a  hanging  bunch 
of  last  year's  red  rowan  berries  the  light  stole 
softly. 

"Sunlight!"  said  his  mother.  "See  now  if 
she's  there." 

They  turned  eagerly  to  the  window,  press- 


WILD   JUSTICE  127 

ing  their  thumbs  against  the  pane  to  make 
peep-holes  in  the  frost  that  already  had 
gathered  white  again.  Outside,  the  snowfields 
and  the  stringy,  shivering  larch  by  the  door 
were  plain  in  the  low-slanting  light ;  then  the 
ice  and  black  open  water  of  the  bay,  the 
island  and  its  fir  trees,  and  beyond,  rising  to 
the  pale  winter  sky,  the  hills  of  the  American 
shore,  with  broad  fields  of  snow  cut  by  fences 
that  looked  like  black  strings  tied  full  of 
knots.  In  the  middle  of  the  bay  was  what 
they  both  had  feared  to  see,  —  a  gray  old 
three-masted  schooner,  the  Merry  Andrew, 
lying  at  anchor. 

"There  she  is,"  said  Marden.  "And  see, 
she  's  swung  on  her  anchor-chains,  and  point- 
ing bowsprit  up-river.  The  tide's  going 
already,  mother." 

"  They  '11  be  "—faltered  his  mother, "  they  '11 
be  —  before   long —    Is  your  bag  ready.?" 

"In  the  corner,  all  ready,"  he  replied, 
pointing  toward  the  door,  where  there  lay  a 
long  canvas  bag  such  as  sailors  carry,  lumpy, 
dingy,  bolster-like,  and  pursed  at  the  top 
with  a  web  of  cords. 


128  BEACHED  KEELS 

"  Lee  took  your  father's  bag  with  him,  you 
know,"  said  his  mother,  evidently  for  the 
sake  of  saying  something.  "It  was  better 
than  that  one.  It  had  *  J.  S.'  painted  on  it,  — 
John  Sebright,  —  and  then  underneath,  *  Bark 
Gilderoy.'  He  had  it  all  along,  when  we 
were  both  young  and  everything  went  well, 
—  and  later  when  we  lost  the  Gilderoy  — 
and  all  those  downhill  years;  and  he  kept  it 
after  we  had  to  stay  here  ashore.  I  wonder 
if  Lee's  got  it  still?" 

Marden  was  silent.  He  thought  of  his 
father  seldom,  and  bitterly.  But  now  it  was 
with  a  touch  of  pity  that  he  recalled  him 
sitting  in  the  big  chair  by  the  stove,  —  a 
hulking  wreck  of  a  man,  broad,  squat,  with 
a  great,  hopeless  face  mottled  in  purple 
veins.  He  could  almost  smell  again  the  rank 
pipe  and  ranker  West  India  rum,  and  hear 
the  growl  of  defeat  from  under  the  fierce 
white  mustache,  "Here  we  are  in  stays,  by 
Christ,  in  stays,  that  's  where  we  are!" 
Then  from  this  vision  the  lad  looked  across 
the  table  at  his  mother,  gentle,  gray-haired, 
smiling  in  her  sorrow,  and  a  wave  of  anger 


WILD   JUSTICE  129 

rose  in  his  heart,  and  was  overwhelmed  in  a 
greater  wave  of  pity. 

"Oh,  mother,"  he  cried,  choking,  "you  are 
—  you  are  —  in  all  the  world" —  His  voice 
was  stifled  again.  *'  If  ever  I  'm  of  any  use  in 
my  life,  it 's  all  —  it 's  all" — 

He  was  on  the  verge  of  breaking  down 
utterly;  and  no  one  can  tell  whether  her 
bravery,  great  as  it  was,  would  have  sufficed 
for  both.  But  suddenly,  in  the  tense  quiet  of 
the  room,  there  sounded  a  knocking  at  the 
door  that  shut  them  in  from  the  outside 
world.  It  was  a  strange  series  of  raps,  uncer- 
tain, hesitating,  fumbling. 

The  woman's  face  grew  very  white.  The 
boy  pulled  himself  together,  and  rose. 

"They 've come,"  he  said.  "It's  theMaltee." 

The  knocking  sounded  sharp  on  the  frosty 
wood  as  he  crossed  the  room.  The  door 
swung  open,  letting  in  a  flood  of  freezing 
cold  and  of  sunshine;  and  there  on  the  half 
millstone  that  formed  the  doorstep  was  a 
little  black  ape  of  a  man,  in  a  blue  reefer 
and  teamster's  cap,  with  gold  rings  in  the 
stubby  lobes  of  his  ears. 


130  BEACHED  KEELS 

^'Eccomiy^'  said  this  swarthy  apparition. 
His  bright  Httle  eyes  looked  up  and  down,  up 
and  down,  quick  and  distressed,  like  a  mon- 
key's. "Time  now.  AUa-board.  Ebba-tide. 
You  come,  by  damn,  we  go." 

Angelo  the  Maltese  was  never  given  a 
bigger  part  to  play  in  this  world  than  that 
of  an  incapable  sea-cook  and  a  distorter  of 
the  simplest  messages;  but  now  for  one  instant 
it  fell  to  him  to  speak  important  lines  in  the 
obscure  tragedy  of  the  Sebrights.  To  them 
his  faltering  knock  at  the  door  had  sounded 
like  the  thunder  of  the  Commander's  statue; 
his  mumbling,  broken  English,  the  words 
of  a  Fate  large,  inexorable,  and  as  cold  as  the 
wind  that  blew  into  the  room  from  over  the 
bay  and  the  dazzling  snowfields.  But 
Angelo  did  not  guess  his  own  importance,  for 
he  remained  cringing  in  the  doorway,  against 
a  background  of  bright  snow  and  black 
water,  looking  up  and  down,  up  and  down 
with  his  troubled  eyes,  scraping  and  shuflSing 
his  heavy  brogans  on  the  flint  millstone. 

He  pulled  from  the  breast  pocket  of  his 
reefer  a  dingy  letter. 


WILD   JUSTICE  131 

^^  Alia  madre.  Cap'na  Harlow  send.  Pay 
—  un  mese  —  one  mont'  pay.  You  write 
gotta  him.P" 

While  Marden  took  his  threadbare  jacket 
and  cap  from  the  peg  by  the  door,  his  mother, 
at  the  table,  signed  the  receipt  for  twenty-five 
dollars,  one  month's  pay  in  advance,  on 
paper  that  was  a  blur  before  her  brimming 
eyes.  Her  life,  like  that  of  many  women,  had 
been  one  of  partings;  but  they  were  none  the 
easier  for  that,  and  now  it  was  as  if  she  were 
selling  her  youngest  son,  who  had  never  left 
her  before,  and  selling  him  to  go  with  strangers 
into  a  strange  country. 

Even  Angelo  with  the  monkey  eyes  did 
not  see  how  they  parted. 

When  the  boy  came  out,  he  stumbled  at 
the  millstone  step,  to  be  sure,  and  the  world 
of  snow  and  sunlight  reeled  before  his  eyes; 
but  his  chin  was  high,  the  canvas  bag  rode 
light  as  a  feather  on  his  shoulder,  and  he 
swung  so  briskly  along  the  narrow  path  in  the 
snow  that  the  Maltese  had  close  work  to 
follow  with  his  sea-legs. 

They  were  hardly  down  over  the  knoll 


132  BEACHED  KEELS 

from  which  the  gray  cottage  overlooked  the 
bay,  when  a  woman  in  black,  with  an  old 
plaid  shawl  about  her  head,  stole  out  of  the 
door,  and  followed  slowly  along  the  path. 
She  made  no  attempt  to  overtake  the  two 
men,  nor  did  they  look  back.  On  the  bank 
at  the  edge  of  the  shore  she  halted,  and  stood 
watching  them  as,  in  the  morning  sun,  they 
crashed  their  way  down  the  beach,  over  ice 
thin  as  paper,  that  splintered  underfoot  and 
broke  tinkling  into  broad  plates  for  yards 
around,  to  show  the  gray  pebbles  or  black 
mud-flats  beneath. 

Beyond  the  ice,  where  the  water  smoked  in 
the  sun,  lay  a  ship's  boat  with  a  dark  Italian 
sailor  and  a  fat  water-cask  in  it.  Angelo 
hopped  in  lightly.  Harden  was  about  to 
follow,  when  he  turned,  and  at  the  sight  of 
his  mother  standing  on  the  distant  bank, 
started  and  made  a  step  landward.  There 
was  a  growl  in  the  boat.  He  pitched  the  bag 
to  one  of  the  sailors,  waved  his  cap  in  answer 
to  his  mother's  hand,  shoved  off,  and  jumped 
into  the  bow.  The  boat  turned,  and  pulled 
slowly  away  through  the  mist  that  from  all 


WILD   JUSTICE  133 

the  open  water  rose  like  smoke,  and  drew 
slowly  down  with  the  tide.  And  through  the 
smoke  the  heart  in  the  boat  and  the  heart 
on  the  shore  were  aching  for  each  other  across 
the  growing  distance. 

The  woman  on  the  shore  saw  the  boat  pull 
under  the  stern  of  the  gray  Merry  Andrew, 
and  rise  with  a  creak  of  tackle  to  the  davits ; 
saw  the  men  going  about  the  deck,  black  and 
small  as  ants;  heard  the  chirrup  of  blocks  on 
the  headsails,  fore  and  mainsail,  and  even, 
in  the  stillness,  the  clinking  of  the  capstan 
pawls,  till  suddenly  it  was  drowned  in  the 
half-hearted  quaver  of  a  chanty  raised  by 
Captain  Harlow's  Americans  on  board,  heav- 
ing short: — 

"Sometimes  we  *re  bound  for  Liverpool, 
Sometimes  we  *re  bound  for  France; 
But  now  we  *re  off  for  Sicily 
For  to  give  those  girls  a  chance. 

"Walk  her  round,  boys-oh-boys, 
We  're  all  bound  to  go. 
Walk  her  round,  my  bully  boys. 
We  *re  all  bound  to  go." 

Then  she  saw  the  gray  schooner  wear  round 
before  a  fair  wind  and  tide,  and,  with  the 


134  BEACHED  KEELS 

peak  of  the  dingy  spanker  crawling  up 
against  the  snowfields  of  the  American 
shore,  draw  slowly  out  of  sight  behind  the 
evergreens  of  the  island. 

As  for  the  boy,  those  few  minutes  were  a 
dream  in  which  he  stumbled  about  the  deck 
hauling  on  frozen  ropes,  and  worrying  that 
his  mother  should  stand  there  so  long  in  the 
snow  before  the  house. 


II 


"young  flood  " 


Thus  it  was  that  the  schooner  Merry  An- 
drew, of  Hinkley,  Maine,  took  on  another  cask 
of  water,  shipped  a  foremast  hand  to  fill  her 
crew,  and  was  off  for  Sicily.  Among  the  frozen 
islands  and  headlands  of  Etchemin  Bay  her 
master,  Cyrus  Harlow,  steered  her  warily,  and 
through  the  bold  water  under  many  an  ever- 
green crag,  till  she  won  to  open  sea.  With  a 
good  bottom,  and  a  light  cargo  of  shooks  for 
orange-boxes,  she  rode  handily  out  on  the 
long  swell  of  the  wintry  North  Atlantic. 

When  a  boy  has  been  brought  up  at  his 


WILD   JUSTICE  135 

mother's  side,  —  apron  strings  or  not,  —  he  is 
hardly  at  his  ease  among  the  rough  men  of 
a  sulky  and  half-frozen  crew,  part  Yankees 
who  curse  at  him  for  a  young  blue-nose  lubber, 
and  part  Italians  who  curse  the  less  only  that 
their  teeth  are  chattering  the  more.  But  if  a 
boy  is  quick  with  his  hands,  and  stows  his 
tongue,  and  looks  at  you  with  clear  eyes 
that  are  not  afraid,  you  can  easily  let  him 
alone,  or  perhaps  forget  that  he  is  on  board. 
"A  good  enough  lad,"  said  the  second  mate, 
three  days  out.  "No  one  minds  the  boy." 
And  they  let  it  go  at  that. 

Of  course  the  boy's  heart  ached  at  first, 
and  sorely.  The  thought  of  what  he  had 
left  behind,  and  how,  and  why,  rankled  in 
him  for  many  a  day,  while  he  staggered  about 
the  slewing  deck,  or  choked  down  Angelo's 
greasy  food  at  the  duskiest  corner  of  the 
heaving  table,  or  lay  in  his  bunk  stark  awake 
and  miserable,  hearing  the  timbers  creak  and 
strain,  watching  the  lamp  swing  the  shadows 
across  the  roof  of  the  forecastle,  that  was 
stifling  with  tobacco,  and  woolen  socks 
steaming,  and  tar  and  oilskins,  and  the  brute 


136  BEACHED  KEELS 

smell  of  cooped-up  men.  But  as  his  first 
seasickness  quickly  left  him,  who  was  son 
and  grandson  to  English  sea-captains,  so  his 
health  and  youth  pulled  him  through  the 
vast  misery  of  the  first  longing  for  home. 
His  conscience  often  upbraided  him  for  his 
rising  spirits.  Of  course  he  would  not  forget 
his  mother  and  her  loneliness.  But  then, 
there  was  so  much  to  see  and  learn  and  live 
through!  To  sail  southward  in  a  vessel 
sheeted  with  ice;  to  beat  dizzily  and  wearily 
all  day  into  a  blind  whirl  of  snowflakes ;  on  a 
calm  morning  to  see  the  snow,  that  strange 
white  creature  of  the  land,  so  odd  and  out  of 
place  aboard  ship,  lying  ankle-deep  along  the 
deck,  or  capping  the  deckhouse  with  a 
dome,  or  drifted  over  the  anchor-chains,  or 
caught  like  thistledown  in  the  dirty  fold  of  a 
frozen  sail;  and  then,  little  by  little,  week  by 
week,  as  the  sun  grew  higher  and  warmer,  to 
be  sailing  into  spring  weather,  with  the  sweet 
smell  of  clean  beech  and  maple  rising  from 
the  hold,  while  the  Italians  thawed  into 
laughter  and  left  their  reefers  in  the  fore- 
castle, till  all  the  crew  went  about  the  deck 


WILD   JUSTICE  137 

sweating,  in  their  blue  undershirts,  with 
tattooed  arms  bare:  all  this,  and  the  slow 
process  of  time  on  the  ocean,  the  lazy  after- 
noons on  deck,  the  long  yarns  and  longer 
silences  by  starlight,  and  at  last  the  sight  of 
the  great  rock  Gibraltar  rising  vaguely  ahead 
in  a  shimmer  of  brown  morning  haze,  were 
enough  to  make  the  thoughts  of  a  healthy  boy 
fly  forward  rather  than  astern. 

On  the  ninety-seventh  day  the  Merry 
Andrew  tied  up  at  the  long  stone  quay  in  Pa- 
lermo, on  the  island  of  Sicily.  Then  there 
were  stirring  times.  Captain  Cyrus  Harlow 
brought  papers  out  of  his  cabin  and  went 
ashore,  flushed  with  the  new  dignity  of  inter- 
national affairs,  blowing  his  great  nose  like 
a  herald's  blast  before  him.  Angelo  and  the 
other  Italians  became  mad  creatures,  and 
jabbered  with  gestures  as  of  life  and  death 
among  the  stevedores  who  bundled  the  shooks 
up  from  the  dark  hole.  And  Marden  loafed 
on  deck  with  the  Yankees,  happy  to  watch 
these  swarthy  people  work  so  fast  in  the  heat 
that  quivered  on  the  quay,  to  admire  the 
foreign    city    with    its    strangely    fashioned 


138  BEACHED  KEELS 

houses  all  of  stone,  to  follow  with  his  eyes  the 
long  line  of  the  quay  and  breakwater,  the 
dark  blue  platoons  of  soldiers  drilling  in  a 
distant  field,  and  the  Conca  d'  Oro  sheltering 
all  in  a  semicircle  of  mountains.  All  the 
unaccustomed  sounds  and  colors  and  smells 
of  this,  his  first  city,  went  to  Marden's  head. 
He  was  glad  just  to  be  alive,  to  lean  over  the 
rail  and  watch  the  giddy  ripples  of  sunlight 
that  the  waves  set  shivering  along  the  foot 
of  the  pier,  or  to  gaze  northward  to  where 
Mount  Pellegrino  overlooked  the  sea,  or  to 
whistle,  or  to  shred  a  bit  of  oakum  with  his 
fingers,  and  all  the  while  think  of  nothing. 
Such  kinship  had  he  with  his  brother  Lee. 
They  stayed  ten  days  at  Palermo  dis- 
charging. So  Harden  found  time  to  wander 
through  the  streets,  under  the  heavy  balconies 
of  the  houses,  past  little  half-hidden  buildings 
older  than  the  Saracens,  and  churches  that 
reminded  him  of  a  picture  in  his  Arabian 
Nights.  At  the  Quattro  Cantoni  he  lounged 
nearly  a  whole  bright  afternoon,  looking 
down  the  long  streets  to  the  mountains  and 
the  sea.     There  were  nights  of  shore  leave, 


WILD   JUSTICE  139 

too,  when  the  sailors  trooped  along  the  quay 
in  the  cool  of  the  Sicilian  evening,  and  bought 
fruit  dirt-cheap,  and  for  ten  cents  a  long- 
necked  bottle  of  Italian  wine. 

"Why  don't  ye  git  some  to  take  aboard 
fer  goin'  back?"  they  would  sometimes  ask 
Harden.  And  when  he  answered  that  he 
hadn't  the  money  to  spare,  "You're  too 
young  to  be  so  damn  close,"  was  their  retort. 
For  all  that,  it  was  a  good-humored  group  of 
mariners  that  pushed  along  the  streets,  staring 
into  the  lighted  windows,  or  at  some  pretty, 
dark  Sicilian  woman  in  a  doorway.  Yet  al- 
ways after  a  while  the  group  mysteriously 
separated.  The  men  disappeared,  Marden  no- 
ticed, alone  or  in  pairs  down  some  obscure  side 
street,  laughing  loudly.  Then  Bunty  Gildart, 
the  second  mate  and  a  philosophical  mar- 
ried man,  took  the  boy  carefully  in  tow,  and 
they  went  back  aboard  ship  together  early. 

"Ye  see,  boy,"  Bunty  would  say  apolo- 
getically, as  they  two  came  along  the  quay 
together,  "ye  see,  they  has  to  be  quiet  ones  in 
a  crew,  jest  like  everywheres  else  in  the  world, 
as  a  man  might  say."    And  he  would  wag  his 


140  BEACHED  KEELS 

colorless  beard  sadly,  and  halt,  and  look  out 
over  the  harbor  with  something  like  a  sigh. 
Then,  changing  the  subject  with  laborious 
tact,  he  would  exclaim,  in  the  surprised  tone 
of  a  good  child,  "This  town 's  got  a  pop'lation 
of  three  hund'ed  and  ten  thousand!"  or, 
"The  old  man  tells  me  it 's  only  a  fortnight 
to  Jerusalem  and  all  them  holy  places. 
Think  o'  that,  boy!" 

The  crew  came  back  at  different  hours 
after  midnight,  in  different  stages  of  disorder. 
Marden  felt  toward  them  an  odd  mixture  of 
repulsion  and  envy,  and  was  ashamed  of 
something  that  he  could  not  quite  name. 

On  the  last  night  ashore,  however,  a  strange 
thing  happened.  The  crew  had  halted  before 
the  mouth  of  an  alleyway,  and  were  looking 
in  to  see  whether  the  fierce  eddy  of  Sicilian 
men  and  women  there  meant  a  riot  or  a  family 
rejoicing.  Marden,  on  the  outskirts  of  their 
own  group,  felt  a  plucking  at  his  elbow,  and 
turned  to  look  down  into  the  ugly  face  of 
Jerry  Fox,  with  his  harelip  and  bulging,  frog- 
like eyes.  The  creature  winked,  beckoned, 
and  then  waddled  off  on  his  bowlegs  round 


WILD   JUSTICE  141 

the  nearest  corner.  Wondering  at  this  sudden 
and  secret  friendliness,  the  boy  followed. 

"See  'ere,  podner,"  grunted  the  harelip, 
slipping  his  arm  through  Marden's  and 
dragging  him  along  the  street,  "the  homeliest 
man  in  the  crew 's  got  ter  have  the  handsomest 
man  fer  ter  tow  alongside  of.  That 's  a  square 
deal,  ain't  it  ?  And  say,  mate,  I  ain't  a-goin' 
back  aboard  no  more  o'  the  Andrew.  The 
old  man  makes  me  tired.  Sick  of  him.  I  'm 
a-goin'  to  duck  out  to-night.  Don't  say 
nothin'.  But  you  come  along  fust  an'  I  '11 
show  you  a  good  time." 

Before  Harden  could  free  himself,  the 
misshapen  creature  had  pulled  him  along, 
halted  squarely  in  front  of  two  women  in  a 
lighted  doorway,  and  begun  to  address  them 
in  wonderfully  bad  Italian.  At  his  words, 
and  the  sight  of  his  froglike  face,  the  older 
woman  broke  into  clear  laughter,  that  showed 
her  white  teeth  and  set  her  earrings  swinging; 
but  the  younger,  a  mere  girl,  turned  upon 
Marden  a  pair  of  dark,  steady  eyes,  so  large 
and  starlike  that  the  lad  stood  wondering, 
delighted,  yet  afraid.     He  would  have  given 


142  BEACHED  KEELS 

worlds  to  know  what  to  say  to  the  owner  of 
such  eyes.  But  just  then  the  rest  of  the  crew, 
swinging  noisily  round  the  corner,  with  loud 
cries  and  laughter  surrounded  the  two  truants 
and  swept  them  along.  The  rest  of  the  even- 
ing went  quickly,  for  they  would  have  to  sail 
for  Trapani  in  the  early  morning;  and  after 
visiting  a  maze  of  wineshops,  they  all  trooped 
aboard,  laden  with  bottles,  jugs,  and  small 
kegs,  like  pirates  from  the  sack  of  a  town. 
All  but  Fox:  he  kept  his  word  and  deserted, 
no  one  saw  where;  at  which  Captain  Harlow 
swore  next  morning,  loud  and  nasal,  for  sev- 
eral miles  along  the  northern  coast  of  Sicily. 
From  Trapani  the  Merry  Andrew  cleared 
with  a  cargo  of  salt  for  Boothbay,  Maine. 
The  voyage  home  was  longer,  and  to  Marden, 
whose  thoughts  were  now  homeward  bound 
so  fast,  was  tedious.  Ten  days  out  from 
Gibraltar  they  ran  into  a  dead  tropical  calm, 
with  the  sun  blazing  down  from  overhead  in 
intolerable  heat,  the  deck  like  the  top  of  a 
great  stove,  and  the  ocean  dead  and  blank 
to  the  high,  taut  line  of  the  horizon.  All  day 
long  the  tar  dripped  from  the  rigging  like 


WILD   JUSTICE  143 

raindrops  on  the  deck,  and  the  crew  lay  about 
as  dead  men. 

When  this  had  lasted  nearly  a  week,  and  it 
seemed  possible  that  the  water  might  run 
short,  there  came  a  memorable  night  when 
a  little  coolness  stole  from  somewhere  over 
the  blank  ocean,  and  Captain  Harlow  allowed 
the  Italian  wine  to  be  served  out  in  place  of 
water.  The  amount  was  moderate,  to  be 
sure,  yet  that  evening  the  Merry  Andrew  was 
another  ship,  officers  and  men.  Forward, 
from  sunset  till  long  after  dark,  there  rose 
the  merry  sound  of  harmonicas,  rough  songs, 
and  shuffling  heel  and  toe.  Aft,  the  captain  — 
sun-dried  Yankee  as  he  was  —  relaxed  to  the 
extent  of  two  bottles  with  the  first  mate,  by 
lantern-light  and  starlight.  Harden,  who 
stood  useless  at  the  wheel,  was  forced  to 
listen  to  the  talk,  which  ran  seriously  upon 
Jerry  Fox,  and  the  causes  of  desertion  in 
general. 

"I  've  seen  men,  Mr.  Spinney,"  the  captain 
said,  with  a  vinous  buoyancy  in  his  voice, 
"I've  seen  men  go  plumb  to  hellelujah  over 
women  that  if  they  'd  'a'  brung  me  my  food 


144  BEACHED  KEELS 

to  the  table,  I  could  n't  'a'  eat  it."  Then,  to 
Marden's  surprise,  the  captain  addressed  him, 
turning  so  that  the  lantern-light  threw  a  sinis- 
ter shadow  of  his  great  nose  across  half  his 
face.  "Sebright,"  he  said,  speaking  with 
fine  irrelevancy,  "I  sailed  under  your  father 
on  the  Gilderoy,  and  a  sour  man  he  was ;  but 
his  wife  was  an  angel,  as  we  all  knowed,  at 
sea  or  ashore."  He  gave  no  explanation  of 
this,  but  rising  to  his  great  height,  and  weigh- 
ing the  empty  bottle  in  his  palm,  added, 
"They's  only  two  kinds  o'  women,  Mr. 
Spinney,  —  they 's  angels,  and  they 's  brim- 
stone devils."  And  he  flung  the  bottle  over- 
board, where  it  sank  in  a  bright  splash  of 
phosphorus. 

"  They 's  dummies,  sometimes,"  replied  the 
first  mate  sagely.  But  the  captain  did  not 
hear,  for  he  was  clumping  down  into  his 
cabin,  to  be  alone. 

Marden  stood  and  wondered.  Up  for- 
ward, the  reedy  mouth-organ  wheezed,  and 
the  heavy  soles  smote  the  planking  faster  and 
harder.  But  the  boy  was  looking  overhead, 
past  the  dim  blackness  of  the  topmast,  into  the 


WILD   JUSTICE  145 

deep  multitude  of  stars.  He  remembered 
having  heard  somewhere  that  Cyrus  Harlow 
had  married  most  unhappily.  Then,  all  at 
once,  while  he  was  pitying  the  gaunt  captain, 
he  understood  the  mention  of  his  mother,  so 
that  he  wondered  still  more,  and  suddenly 
saw,  as  it  were,  further  into  her  life,  in  clearer 
light  and  truer  proportion,  —  its  relation  to 
other  persons,  dead,  or  mere  names  to  him, 
its  complexities,  and  its  sadness.  The  thought 
of  her  now  alone  so  long  came  with  a  new 
poignancy,  making  him  astonished  to  recall 
that  he  had  been  sometimes  happy  on  this 
voyage,  forgetful  in  the  pleasure  of  new 
sights,  new  experiences,  and  life  at  young 
flood.  The  starry  eyes  of  the  Sicilian  girl 
shone  in  his  mind,  and  he  was  strangely  and 
bitterly  ashamed.  "That's  like  father  or 
Lee,"  he  thought,  with  swift  disgust.  "I  won't 
take  after  them."  On  the  heels  of  this  a  bit 
out  of  the  Bible  came  to  him.  "The  eye  is 
not  satisfied  with  seeing,  nor  the  ear  filled 
with  hearing;"  and  he  repeated  it,  looking 
up  into  the  stars.  "That's  their  kind,"  he 
thought,  "father   and   Lee,  —  seeing  things 


146  BEACHED  KEELS 

for  themselves  everywhere,  and  not  a  thought 
or  a  worry."  As  for  him,  he  would  stay 
ashore  at  home  after  this,  for  good,  and  not 
care  if  he  never  saw  a  thing  in  all  his  days. 
And  he  would  find  something,  make  some- 
thing, to  work  at  for  his  living.  He  was  eager 
to  get  home  and  begin.  The  situation  there 
was  bleak  and  desperate  enough,  to  be  sure; 
but  as  he  thought  it  over  and  over,  there 
seemed  to  be  a  chance  of  some  kind,  surely. 
The  stars  grew  more  friendly  while  he  looked 
at  them,  pondering;  the  half -tipsy  songs  and 
shuffling  became  the  music  of  the  homeward 
bound;  and  when  he  turned  in  that  night  he 
lay  in  his  bunk  cheerfully  figuring  out  his 
wages  over  and  over. 

It  was  late  in  July  before  the  Merry  An- 
drew lay  ofif  his  native  town,  and  sent  him 
ashore  in  a  boat,  —  to  the  wharf  in  the  village, 
for  there  was  not  time  to  land  him  upon  his 
own  beach.  The  unpainted  houses  along 
the  straggling  main  street  seemed  flat  and 
small  and  widely  spaced,  the  church  steeple 
lower,  after  the  cities  he  had  seen.  As  they 
rowed  in  on  the  young  flood,  the  distances 


WILD   JUSTICE  147 

between  old  landmarks  seemed  to  have 
changed,  and  the  landmarks  themselves  to 
be  the  same  yet  not  the  same  as  before.  In 
the  hot  noon  stillness  the  village  wore  a 
blighted  and  ghostlike  appearance.  But  the 
land  breeze  brought  across  the  harbor  the 
sweet  smell  of  the  Canadian  fields  of  clover, 
still  uncut  and  still  blooming.  And  the  boy, 
with  his  pockets  full  of  money,  and  his  eyes 
straining  for  a  glimpse  of  the  gray  house  on 
the  knoll  beyond  the  town,  was  on  fire  to  be 
at  home  again. 

Heber  Griswold,  their  nearest  neighbor,  met 
him  at  the  head  of  the  slip  as  he  hurried  up, 
dragging  his  canvas  bag. 

"  Hello,  Heber  ! "  called  Marden,  breathless 
and  happy,  and  would  have  shaken  hands. 

Heber  acted  queerly,  however,  part  ofBsh 
and  defiant,  part  cringing.  He  was  in  his 
best  clothes. 

"I  seen  the  Andrew  a-lyin'  off  there,"  he 
said  in  the  tone  of  a  set  apology,  "and  I 
knowed  you  was  a-comin'  home.  Ye  see  — 
ye  see,  Mard" — 

But  Marden  had  caught  sight  of  some- 


148  BEACHED  KEELS 

thing  in  his  hand,  something  that  he  knew,  — 
the  brass  key  that  always  stayed  in  the  lock 
inside  the  front  door  to  the  house. 

"What  are  you  doing  with  that?"  he  cried 
in  the  sharp  voice  of  fear.  "Is  she  away.^ 
Heber,  is  my  —  is  she" — 

The  wharf  tilted  like  a  deck  underfoot  as 
he  saw  the  man's  face  unmask  and  his  eyes 
answer. 

"Last  April,"  faltered  Heber,  "last  April 
it  were  —   By  God,  Mard,  I  'm  sorry" — 

But  Marden  had  snatched  the  key  and 
was  running  down  the  village  street,  the  can- 
vas bag  bobbing  over  his  shoulder. 


in 

A  DEBT  TO  MEMORY 

He  ran  on  blindly,  through  the  street,  and 
out  through  the  fields  knee-deep  in  timothy 
and  clover.  A  few  of  the  village  people  at 
their  doors,  looking  curiously  after  the  brown- 
faced  young  sailor  with  the  wild  gray  eyes, 
knew  him  for  Marden  Sebright  only  when 


WILD   JUSTICE  149 

they  saw  him  scramble  up  the  distant  knoll 
to  the  deserted  house. 

Brushing  through  the  rank  chick  weed 
that  choked  the  path.  Harden,  still  in  a 
frenzy  of  haste,  reached  the  door  and  thrust 
the  key  somehow  into  the  lock.  Then,  as 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  tried  to  unlock 
the  door  from  without,  it  came  over  him 
suddenly  that  there  was  no  use  in  hurrying  so. 
Sick  with  despair,  he  stopped,  and  looked 
round  him  in  a  hateful  calmness.  He  saw 
the  windows,  with  the  white  shades  pulled 
down,  looking  at  him  like  blank  eyes;  saw 
the  caraway  weeds,  the  yarrow,  the  ever- 
lasting, and  the  red  flowers  of  the  tall  London 
Pride,  growing  high  and  wild  along  the  front 
of  the  gray  shingles ;  felt  the  heat  of  noon  beat 
down  on  the  millstone  doorstep ;  heard  in  the 
stillness  the  wiry  hum  of  innumerable  flies; 
and  all  was  flat,  and  dead,  and  meaningless. 

At  last  he  opened  the  door.  With  bared 
head,  slowly  and  quietly,  as  if  coming  into 
some  dread  presence,  he  entered,  closed  the 
door  gently,  and  stood  looking  about  him. 
The  kitchen,  with  the  white-shaded  windows 


150  BEACHED  KEELS 

dimming  the  sunlight,  was  cool  and  dusky. 
There  was  the  familiar,  indefinable  smell  of 
home,  and  his  heart  sank  lower  as  he  recog- 
nized it.  A  single  fly  buzzed  on  the  pane. 
Even  to  the  dusty  branch  of  red  mountain  ash 
berries  hanging  under  the  Gilderoy,  every- 
thing was  in  order,  as  he  had  known  it;  except 
that  the  door  into  his  mother's  room  —  the 
only  other  room  on  the  ground  floor  of  the 
little  house  —  now  stood  open.  With  a  new 
and  deeper  reverence  he  went  slowly  in,  and 
paused.  Here  again  all  was  in  order,  as  in 
the  time  that  seemed  so  many  years  ago ;  here 
again  were  silence  and  the  yellow  dimness  of 
muflfled  sunshine.  In  all  the  room  the  only 
moving  thing  was  the  black  shadow-pattern  of 
the  woodbine  leaves,  quivering  at  the  top  of 
the  white  curtain.  He  was  still  calm  as  he 
drew  near  the  table  by  the  other  window,  at 
the  end  of  the  room.  On  it  lay,  as  if  just  put 
down,  some  unfinished  work  of  his  mother's, 
—  some  knitting  or  other,  neatly  smoothed 
out,  with  the  ends  of  the  needles  thrust  care- 
fully through  the  black  ball.  The  tears 
springing  to  his  eyes,  he  looked  again,  and 


WILD   JUSTICE  151 

there  beside  it  on  the  table  lay  a  letter  in  his 
own  handwriting,  —  his  letter  from  Palermo, 
with  the  money,  —  unopened.  It  had  come 
too  late;  she  had  never  once  heard  from  him. 
And  turning  suddenly,  he  ran  and  knelt  by 
the  bed,  flung  his  arms  upon  it,  and  burying 
his  face,  burst  into  such  a  passion  of  weeping 
as  comes  only  once  in  a  man's  life. 

When  he  came  out  of  the  house  again  he 
was  no  longer  a  boy.  There  was  a  hard  look 
on  his  face:  the  features,  always  thin  and 
delicate,  had  taken  on  a  determined  sharpness ; 
out  of  the  swarthy  brown  of  his  tan,  the  gray 
eyes  looked  startlingly  and  piercingly  bright. 
In  the  carriage  of  his  sinewy  body  there  was 
far  more  of  the  soldier  than  the  sailor. 

In  front  of  the  Griswold  house,  at  the 
nearest  end  of  the  village  street,  he  met  Heber, 
—  an  encounter  which,  if  he  had  only  known, 
was  not  strange,  for  the  good  creature  had 
been  watching  at  a  window  all  the  afternoon. 
In  reply  to  his  question,  Heber  took  him 
along  the  road  that  led  up  the  hill  and  into  the 
little  burying-ground,  a  rough  clearing  among 
the  funereal  pointed  firs. 


152  BEACHED  KEELS 

"  Over  there,"  said  Heber,  who  had  barely 
concealed  a  sombre  pleasure  in  his  office. 
He  pointed  to  a  corner  where  the  sunlight 
still  lay.  "The  rector  had  the  stone  put  up," 
he  added,  as  he  turned  away  and  left  Harden 
alone  once  more. 

Two  stones  of  plain  slate  stood  there  under 
a  stringy  hackmatack.  One  he  knew  already; 
it  bore  the  name  "John  Sebright,"  and  the 
dates.  On  the  other,  made  like  the  first  but 
unspotted  by  the  gray  moss,  was  the  name 
"Margaret  Lee  Sebright." 

He  stood  there  for  a  long  time.  It  was 
evening  before  he  returned  to  the  house,  and 
the  last  of  the  sunset  shone  pale  over  the 
jagged  silhouette  of  fir-tops  on  the  point, 
behind  which  the  river  flowed  down  unseen 
to  the  bay.  He  sat  on  the  doorstep,  thinking, 
far  into  the  night.  Outwardly  he  was  master 
of  himself,  but  in  his  heart  the  dreadful 
desperate  calm  was  swept  away  from  time  to 
time  by  a  flood  of  strange  emotions:  void, 
helpless  wonder  at  what  he  should  do  with  the 
fragments  of  a  life  so  shattered;  black  hatred 
of  his  father  and  his  brother,  who  had  made 


WILD   JUSTICE  153 

such  things  possible,  and  of  himself,  who 
seemed  equally  to  blame;  aching  jealousy 
that  his  brother  should  have  borne  his 
mother's  name  of  Lee.  These  thoughts  he 
tried  again  and  again  to  crush  out  as  undu- 
tiful,  —  to  drown  even  in  bitter  imaginings 
of  the  last  days  of  his  mother's  life.  But  they 
appeared  again  and  again,  each  time  more 
powerful.  Still  more  powerful,  mingling 
with  and  mastering  all  his  other  emotions, 
was  a  newborn  hatred  of  the  sea,  of  all  ships 
and  sailors ;  a  hatred  as  vast  as  the  ocean  itself, 
that  lay  beyond  the  village  and  the  islands, 
under  the  evening  star. 

Somewhere  round  midnight,  before  he 
went  to  bed  in  one  of  the  two  rooms  in  the 
loft,  he  entered  his  mother's  room,  looked 
slowly  about  to  see  that  everything  was  as  it 
had  been,  then  withdrew,  and  locking  the 
door,  hid  the  key  behind  the  old  spyglass  on 
the  kitchen  shelf.  Hereafter  that  room  was 
to  be  a  holy  place. 

The  next  morning  his  life  began,  alone; 
and  alone  it  continued  for  five  years,  in  house 
and  village.     He  had  already  determined  to 


154  BEACHED  KEELS 

stay  ashore  and  at  home  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  It  was  a  vow.  He  did  not  think  it  an 
act  of  expiation,  though  he  came  to  look  upon 
his  voyage,  necessary  as  it  had  been,  in  the 
light  of  a  fault  beyond  atonement.  To  stay 
now  seemed  merely  the  one  course  possible. 
He  felt  vaguely,  without  quite  putting  it  into 
words,  that  he  had  this  thing  to  be  devoted  to, 
as  a  doorkeeper  to  the  temple.  And  so  he 
remained,  alone.  The  villagers  were  kind, 
and  would  have  been  companionable.  But 
theirs  was  a  world  apart  from  his ;  and 
although  Marden  was  good  to  them  in  return, 
and  indeed  became  known  for  innumerable 
little  kindnesses,  it  was  chiefly  for  a  reason 
that  they  never  dreamed  of,  —  that  in  the 
same  spirit  he  would  have  died  for  the  sake 
of  the  meanest  person  in  the  village,  so  lightly 
did  he  value  his  time  or  his  life.  Like  Hercu- 
les in  the  Alcestis,  —  a  Hercules  in  shabby 
clothes,  —  he  held  his  life  out  on  his  hand  for 
any  man  to  take.  And  they,  seeing  him  grow 
into  a  young  man  of  few  or  almost  no  words, 
a  young  man  strong,  clean,  and  straight  in  his 
ragged  jacket,  with  a  thin,  sad  face  and  the 


WILD   JUSTICE  155 

eyes  of  a  prophet,  —  they  pitied  him  as  a 
''queer  feller,"  and  left  him  more  and  more 
alone. 

In  the  same  years  the  village  began  to 
prosper.  As  in  many  other  little  decayed 
seaports,  men  and  women  from  the  cities 
began  to  come  there  in  the  summer,  and, 
finding  the  village  "quaint"  and  the  air 
pleasant,  came  again  and  brought  others. 
Thus  there  was  money  to  be  had  for  fish,  and 
lamb,  and  green  peas,  for  the  simple  work  of 
sailing  a  boat  that  you  had  been  brought  up 
in,  or,  if  you  were  a  boy,  of  following  a  'golf- 
ball  over  the  pasture  lots  and  learning  a  new 
game.  At  about  the  same  time  a  shrewd 
Yankee  came  and  saw  the  abundance  of 
clams  in  the  long  stretches  of  beach  at  low 
tide,  and  began  shipping  them  away  by 
barrelfuls  to  Boston  and  New  York.  Since 
this  gave  work  to  some  eight  or  ten  men  in  the 
town,  there  was  no  ill-feeling,  beyond  perhaps 
a  little  envy  at  his  cleverness.  Between  these 
two  new  industries,  the  village  began  to  enjoy 
a  queer  kind  of  mouldering  prosperity,  so 
that  people  had  no  longer,  in  the  words  of 


156  BEACHED  KEELS 

Heber  Griswold,  to  live  through  the  winter 
on  a  greased  rag. 

One  of  the  earhest  neighbors  to  go  to  work 
for  the  Yankee  was  Harden.  He  could  not 
deal  with  the  summer  people,  who,  besides  be- 
ing whole  civilizations  distant  from  him,  came 
to  represent  in  his  mind  the  pitiable,  empty 
possessors  and  disbursers  of  money  that  once 
would  have  meant  so  much  to  him.  Under 
the  Yankee,  however,  it  was  different.  It  was 
plain  business,  with  few  words;  one  was  not 
expected  to  be  a  "character"  into  the  bar- 
gain; and  although  Marden  often  raged  to 
think  that  he  had  been  too  dull  to  find  this 
means  of  livelihood  when  it  was  needed,  he 
took  a  degree  of  comfort  in  working  hard  and 
steadily,  out  of  doors,  at  a  work  that  kept 
him  along  the  beach,  often  within  sight  of  his 
house.  In  the  first  season  he  became  far  and 
away  the  best  among  the  clam-diggers.  On 
almost  any  day,  when  the  ebb-tide  had  bared 
the  dreary  waste  of  greenish  brown  seaweed 
and  dun  flats,  he  might  be  seen,  an  active 
form  stooping  along  the  edge  of  the  bright 
water,  always  alone.    With  fork  and  basket 


WILD   JUSTICE  157 

he  worked  over  the  wide  sands  from  one  to 
another  of  the  beds,  where  the  flats  were 
riddled  as  with  buckshot  holes,  from  which 
little  jets  of  clear  water  now  and  then  spurted 
up,  bright  in  the  sun.  He  took  solace,  not 
in  the  money  he  was  laying  up,  but  in  the 
steady  work  with  his  hands  that  kept  his 
lonely  mind  from  running  too  much  in  strange 
channels.  Always  he  hated,  with  a  growing 
hate,  the  sea  that  he  worked  beside. 

So  things  went  on  in  these  five  years. 
Often  he  longed  for  some  companion  to  step 
from  the  warm,  lighted  circle  of  human  beings 
that  he  seemed  to  stand  outside  of,  in  the 
dark;  yet  as  often  as  the  chance  came  to  talk, 
he  found  to  his  sorrow  that  he  had  no  words,  or 
few,  or  empty,  and  retreated  as  a  ghost  from 
among  his  kindly  fellow  beings.  In  this 
world  there  had  been  only  his  mother;  in  the 
next  —  But  that  was  a  further  darkness,  in 
which  he  found  only  sickening  doubts.  And 
meantime,  as  a  young  man  often  will,  he 
could  feel  himself  growing  old. 

One  hot,  bright  noon,  while  he  was  re- 
treating up  the  beach  with  his  muddy  bas- 


158  BEACHED  KEELS 

ketful  of  clams,  before  the  rising  tide  that 
slowly  drove  him  shoreward,  his  eye  caught 
the  flutter  of  something  pink  at  the  edge  of  the 
land  near  the  house.  Looking  closer,  he  saw 
—  with  a  touch  of  surprise,  for  the  place  was 
almost  never  frequented  —  that  it  was  a 
woman  who  stood  there  at  the  foot  of  the 
bank.  She  was  looking  out  toward  him,  but 
as  he  straightened  up  she  stooped  and  began 
plucking  busily  among  the  beach-grass.  With- 
out much  further  thought,  he  fell  to  digging 
once  more ;  yet  as  often  as  he  looked  up,  there 
she  was  still,  and  when  finally  the  tide  made 
him  give  over  the  day's  work  and  turn  home- 
ward, he  found  her  standing  in  the  nook 
formed  by  the  two  projecting  banks  between 
which  the  path  from  the  house  came  scram- 
bling down  to  the  beach. 

Into  this  nook  the  sun  beat  fiercely.  The 
woman  had  turned  her  back,  and,  with  one 
foot  on  a  rock,  was  tying  her  shoe.  Her  pink 
calico  dress,  bright  against  the  tawny  gravel 
and  parched  grass  of  the  bank,  clung  about 
her  in  the  wind  as  close  as  if  it  had  been  wet. 
She  had  firm  shoulders,  —  rather  broad  for 


WILD   JUSTICE  159 

a  woman  of  middle  stature,  —  a  wide,  comely 
space  between  the  shoulder-blades,  a  trim 
waist,  and  the  ankle  of  a  racer.  Marden 
noted  all  this  calmly  (as  he  would  have 
studied  the  build  of  a  ship),  and  contrasted 
her  with  the  summer  women  from  the  city. 

"They  trail  their  feet,"  he  thought  un- 
gallantly,  "like  the  cows  coming  down  the 
lane." 

He  was  about  to  carry  his  fork  and  basket 
past  her  up  the  bank,  when  she  turned. 

"Hello,"  she  said  cheerily,  flashing  a  pair 
of  bold  eyes  on  him.  "You  scairt  me.  I 
did  n't  hear  you  comin'." 

"That's  a  lie,"  thought  Marden;  but  he 
stopped  and  said  quietly,  "I  'm  sorry." 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "you  don't  need  be  so 
sorry  as  all  that!"  And  at  the  sight  of  his 
solemn  face  she  burst  into  loud  but  not 
unpleasant  laughter. 

Marden,  completely  at  a  loss,  was  silent; 
and  while  he  groped  for  words,  the  woman 
watched  him  with  the  eyes  of  raillery.  Her 
whole  body,  slight  almost  to  thinness,  trem- 
bled with  active  merriment.   Her  cheeks  were 


160  BEACHED  KEELS 

flushed,  and  her  black  eyes  of  a  strange 
watery  lustre  and  fire.  They  were  not  at  all 
those  of  the  Sicilian  girl  at  Palermo,  yet  some- 
how he  vaguely  identified  them,  and  suffered 
the  same  dumb  confusion  before  their  light. 
At  last,  to  his  great  relief,  the  woman  spoke. 

"You're  Marden  Sebright,  ain't  you? 
I  've  seen  you  on  the  w'arf,  —  and  heard  a  lot 
about  you  besides,"  she  added,  with  a  slyness 
that  seemed  unnecessary. 

"I  hope,"  said  Marden,  "I  hope" —  but  as 
he  did  not  know  exactly  what,  he  stopped. 
He  felt  strangely  drawn  toward  this  woman, 
whoever  she  might  be.  He  had  gone  about 
so  much  alone,  so  ghostlike;  and  she  was  so 
very  much  alive  and  full  of  high  spirits. 

"Oh,  it  was  all  nice,"  she  cut  in,  "awful 
nice  things,  all  of  it,  what  I  heard." 

"I  'm  glad  of  that,"  replied  Marden,  and 
balked,  and  felt  himself  a  fool. 

"  I  been  waitin'  a  long  time  here  to  have  a 
talk  with  you,"  she  said  plaintively.  "  You  're 
different  from  these  people.  They  don't 
understand.  And  I  hurt  my  finger  foolin' 
with  a  rock  while  I  was  waitin'.     See."  — 


WILD   JUSTICE  161 

And  she  suddenly  thrust  out  her  hand  for 
him  to  take.  He  put  down  his  basket  and 
fork,  very  clumsily  indeed,  and  took  it,  as 
one  might  handle  a  knife-blade.  It  was  pale 
brown,  and  very  small  beside  his  own.  Along 
one  finger-nail  was  the  faintest  sign  of  a  bruise. 
Her  bracelet  shone  bright  in  the  sun,  —  a 
silver  chain,  and  a  round  silver  bangle  per- 
forated with  star-shaped  holes. 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  he  said,  and  then  added  with 
blunt  honesty,  "  but  it  ain't  as  bad  as  it  might 
be.  A  stone-bruise  can  be  pretty  bad  some- 
times.   You  see,  if  it  gets  " — 

But  there  was  that  in  the  mocking  lustre  of 
her  eyes  which  cut  him  short  in  his  pedagogy. 
Still  holding  her  hand,  he  felt  a  great  weakness 
come  over  him,  a  weakness  overwhelmingly 
strong.  Her  face,  the  triangular  face  of  a 
kitten,  with  her  eyes  of  liquid  fire,  was  turned 
up  toward  him  earnestly  in  the  fierce  noon 
sunlight,  and  was  no  longer  flushed,  but  pale. 
He  felt  that  he  ought  to  tell  her  something  — 
something  that  she  understood  already  and 
expected.    But  there  was  a  long  silence. 

"You  must  be  awful  lonesome,"  she  said 


162  BEACHED  KEELS 

slowly,  "  livin'  there  all  alone  sence  —  for  so 
long." 

A  light  broke  in  upon  Marden  somehow, 
like  the  sun  burning  through  a  fog.  In  a 
flash  his  mind  sped  over  the  consequences. 
By  his  simple  logic,  if  he  should  love  this 
woman,  he  would  marry  her,  and  she  would 
come  to  live  —  His  whole  nature  suffered  a 
revulsion,  an  upheaval.  He  put  the  hand 
slowly  and  coldly  away  from  him.  And  she, 
who  was  looking  only  for  such  treatment  as 
she  had  learned  to  expect  from  other  men, 
found  his  gray  eyes  suddenly  quiet,  distant, 
full  of  undecipherable  thoughts ;  and  she  half 
wondered  at  and  half  despised  him. 

"I  am,"  he  replied  at  last.  Then,  pick- 
ing up  his  things  from  among  the  gravel, 
"Good-by,"  he  said,  and  clambered  up  the 
path  without  looking  back. 

All  that  afternoon  he  walked  furiously 
up  river  through  a  quiet  hill  and  valley  region 
that,  with  the  gulls  flecking  it,  might  have 
been  the  Scottish  highlands.  All  that  evening 
he  paced  before  the  silent  house,  in  the  dark- 
ness.     Sometimes   he   could   have   laughed 


WILD   JUSTICE  163 

aloud  at  the  figure  he  had  cut;  sometimes  he 
felt  the  deepest  degradation.  He  was  vexed, 
feverish,  thrown  out  of  his  reckoning.  "It 
happens  to  everyone,"  he  kept  telling  himself ; 
but  that  was  just  the  trouble,  —  why  should 
a  thing  so  common,  so  laughably  simple,  so 
short  in  point  of  time,  take  on  this  enormous 
proportion  in  his  life  ?  And  why  did  he  seem 
now  so  much  weaker  and  coarser?  Not  till 
late  that  night  did  he  find  himself  calm  again 
and  fit  to  go  indoors. 

At  last,  addressing  the  stars,  he  said, 
**  Captain  Harlow  was  right  about  them." 

And  he  opened  the  door  and  went  in. 

IV 

THE  SINGING  IN  THE  HOUSE 

After  this,  a  year  went  by  without  further 
incident, —  a  summer  of  hard  work,  a  winter 
of  desperate  sitting  about  and  staring  out  of 
the  window  at  snowfields  and  white-caps,  of 
reading  again  the  few  books  that  had  been  his 
mother's,  of  pacing  up  and  down  like  a  wolf 
before  the  closed  door  of  the  other  room. 


164  BEACHED  KEELS 

After  the  adventure  on  the  shore,  Marden 
knew  himself  for  a  man  apart  from  other  men. 
Yet  it  had  renewed  his  purposes  within  him. 
He  must  be  steadfast  to  a  memory,  and  the 
Sebright  blood  must  die  out  of  his  veins.  All 
winter  he  hammered  at  these  thoughts.  The 
spring  drew  on,  when  the  cakes  of  ice  came 
floating  down  in  the  black  water,  and  a  brown 
haze  covered  the  horizon,  and  the  patches  of 
snow  melted  from  under  the  firs  and  cedars, 
and  the  thin,  black  crescent  lines  of  geese 
quivered  northward  in  the  sky,  and  the  air  was 
filled  with  the  pungent,  resinous  smoke  of 
brushwood  fires,  and  the  fields  turned  slowly 
from  buff  to  green,  and  mayflowers  grew 
again,  and  dandelions,  and  later  the  twin- 
flowers  that  Marden's  mother  had  taught 
him  to  love.  There  were  long,  comforting 
walks  in  the  warm  air;  now  that  he  felt  the 
settled  calm  of  knowing  himself  irretrievably 
alone,  the  return  of  spring  seemed  no  longer  a 
cruel  mechanism  of  nature.  Summer  found 
him  at  work  again  on  the  beach,  pausing  now 
and  then  to  look  shoreward,  with  a  kind  of  sad 
beatitude,  at  the  house  that  he  guarded. 


WILD   JUSTICE  165 

Once  when  he  was  at  the  wharf  to  help  in 
shipping  some  of  the  Yankee's  barrels,  he 
saw  among  the  bystanders,  city  and  country 
loungers,  the  woman  of  that  memorable  noon. 
He  recognized  her  with  an  odd  emotion  that 
he  could  not  name.  She  had  seen  him,  he 
was  sure;  but  she  looked  scornfully  past  him, 
and  began  talking  gayly  to  a  great  sullen 
man  with  a  red  beard  and  a  Viking  face,  who 
stood  beside  her  and  scowled.  Later  he  saw 
the  two  driving  in  a  furious  cloud  of  dust 
past  the  Griswold  house  into  the  up-country 
road. 

"There  goes  old  man  Barclay  and  his 
housekeeper,"  called  Heber  from  his  doorway. 
"She  must  keep  house  pretty  lively,  to  git  so 
much  time  outdoor  and  off  the  farm."  And 
he  winked  solemnly.  Marden  went  on, 
laughing  inwardly  for  the  first  time  in  months, 
but  not  at  Heber's  joke. 

The  summer  passed  quietly  enough.  Once 
he  went  to  church,  to  please  the  rector,  a 
comfortable  blond  Englishman  who  often 
asked  him  why  he  did  not  go. 

"Your  mother  was  so  very  devout,  you 


166  BEACHED  KEELS 

know,"  the  rector  had  said,  beaming  at  him 
mildly. 

"Yes,  but  you  see,  sir,"  Marden  had  an- 
swered, "she  hardly  ever  went,  because  she 
could  n't  walk  so  far.  And  so  I  've  got  in  the 
way  of  spending  my  Sundays  at  home  always." 

It  was  by  this  argument,  nevertheless,  that 
Mr.  Bradwell  prevailed.  Unluckily,  however, 
Marden  happened  to  come  on  a  morning 
when  the  good  man  had  elected  to  inform  the 
younglings  of  his  flock  that  they  should 
honor  their  parents.  The  exhortation  re- 
mained long  as  a  distressing  memory.  Har- 
den had  given  the  matter  years  of  thought, 
as  against  the  rector's  week.  He  had  never 
liked  the  latter  part  of  the  text,  —  "that  thy 
days  may  be  long," —  which  this  man,  more- 
over, did  not  explain  to  his  satisfaction. 
"It's  like  a  bargain,"  he  thought;  and  his 
mind  wandered  curiously  away  to  call  up  a 
picture  of  some  black-bearded  Jews  he  had 
seen  trading  in  Palermo.  Out  of  the  whole 
hour  in  the  dark  little  church  he  remembered 
chiefly  this  impression,  and  the  sense  of 
waiting  for  help  that  was  not  offered,  and  the 


WILD   JUSTICE  167 

look  of  the  fog  that  had  been  drifting  like 
smoke  past  the  windows.  Always  afterward 
the  church-bell  recalled  that  morning  to  him, 
till  finally  it  seemed  to  ring  an  ironical  refrain, 
—  "that  thy  days  may  be  long,  long,  —  that 
thy  days  may  be  long."  As  if  a  man  needed 
that,  and  as  if  they  were  not  long  enough 
already ! 

Though  the  rector  saw  that  the  odd  young 
Sebright  came  no  more  to  hear  him,  he  took 
interest  in  the  young  man,  and  later  had 
some  comfortable  ecclesiastical  talks  with 
him.  He  even  was  at  pains  to  point  him  out, 
one  day  on  the  wharf,  to  a  brother  clergyman 
from  the  great  world  of  cities. 

"That  young  man  there,"  he  said,  "the 
bright-eyed  one  who  stands  so  straight,  is 
quite  an  extraordinary  character.  He  has 
been  a  sailor,  and  is  a  clam-digger.  But  do 
you  know,  he  really  has  a  mind  of  his  own, 
and  ideas.  I  was  urging  him  the  other  day  to 
go  to  the  cities  and  make  a  career  for  himself, 
and  he  replied  with  a  quotation  from  the 
*  Pilgrim's  Progress,'  —  well,  I  can't  quite 
recall  it  now,  but  I  assure  you  it  was  aston- 


168  BEACHED  KEELS 

ishingly  apt.  His  personality  has  puzzled  me 
extremely,  I  confess.  He  keeps  entirely  alone, 
and  has  something  almost  fanatical  about 
him  that  is  beyond  my  comprehension." 

"Very  interesting,"  said  the  greater  prelate, 
nodding  his  gray  head  benignly.  "One  sees 
hermits  nowadays,  to  be  sure,  and  I  presume 
that  they  all  have  their  stories.  Edwin  and 
Angelina,  perhaps  ?  "  He  smiled  gently,  as  at  a 
drollery,  and  added,  "  It  is  doubtless  he  whom 
I  have  observed  on  the  beach  digging  —  quite 
like  a  picture  of  Millet's.  ...  He  has  a  good 
face." 

"  He  seems  to  feel  it  his  duty  to  stay  here, 
I  think,"  said  the  other,  and  they  passed  on 
to  talk  of  golf. 

That  very  afternoon  duty  was  to  put  on 
toward  Harden  a  newer  and  a  sterner  face. 
He  had  no  presentiment  while  he  walked 
through  the  street  toward  the  setting  sun, 
and  through  the  fields  already  yellow  with  the 
autumn.  He  even  felt  a  deep  content  when 
he  mounted  the  knoll  and  stopped,  as  he 
often  did,  to  look  at  the  house  standing  there 
gray  and  silent,  with  the  woodbine  leaves 


WILD   JUSTICE  169 

glossy  in  the  late  afternoon  sunshine.  It  was 
very  still  and  peaceful,  —  the  sleepy  village 
with  long,  stilted  wharves  behind  him,  the 
long  beach  and  low  water  at  his  left  hand,  and 
in  front,  beyond  the  house,  the  yellow  fields 
sloping  up  to  the  dark  belt  of  fir  woods 
toward  which  the  sun  was  drawing  down. 
The  tide  was  far  out ;  from  the  island  and  the 
point  on  the  main  shore  the  two  long  bars 
ran  in  thin  and  black  penciling,  almost  joined 
at  the  channel.  The  horses  that  were  pas- 
tured on  the  island  were  coming  home,  — 
tiny  black  figures  that  galloped  along  the  bar, 
became  mere  specks  as  they  swam  the  channel, 
and  then  galloped  again  to  the  land.  Their 
whinnying,  faint  and  thin  across  the  mirror 
of  the  harbor,  was  the  only  sound.  And  as 
Harden  stood  there  in  the  path,  breathing 
the  cool  air  that  rose  from  the  wet  beach, 
drinking  it  in  with  the  autumn  sunshine,  he 
was  content  in  the  happy  weariness  of  a  good 
day's  work. 

Suddenly  he  noticed  that  the  door  of  the 
house  was  open,  and  that  a  thin  smoke  was 
curling  from  the  chimney.     And  he  had  not 


170  BEACHED  KEELS 

recovered  from  this  surprise,  when  out  of  the 
dim  interior  there  came  an  incredible  sound. 
A  voice  was  singing  in  the  house,  —  a  coarse, 
throaty  bass  that  growled  the  semblance  of  a 
tune :  — 

"  Oh,  the  National  Line  it  ruined  me. 
It  caused  me  grief  an'  pain. 
So  we  *11  h'ist  up  on  the  Turkey, 
An*  we  '11  whelt  the  road  again." 

The  singer  cleared  his  throat  with  a  deeper 
growl,  then  spat,  and  went  on:  — 

**  We  '11  whelt  the  road  again,  my  boys. 
We  '11  whelt  the  road  again, 
We  'U  h'ist  up  on  the  Turkey, 
An'  we  '11  whelt  the  road  again." 

Marden  stood  transfixed.  He  knew  in  an 
instant  what  it  meant.  But  it  was  impossible, 
he  would  not  believe  it,  that  this  creature 
could  be  alive  after  sixteen  years,  and  could 
return  thus.  His  mind  reeled  in  a  vertigo,  a 
nausea  of  dismay.  Yet  he  pulled  himself 
together,  waited  an  instant  to  feel  himself 
strong  for  the  encounter,  and  advanced  to  the 
door. 

He  had  thought  himself  ready,  but  he 
had  not  counted  on  such  a  sight.    Just  inside 


WILD   JUSTICE  171 

the  door  a  canvas  bag  lay  dumped,  with 
the  letters  "J.  S.— Bark  Gild—"  showing 
through  the  dirt.  Beyond  it  he  saw  his 
father's  big  armchair  drawn  out  of  its  corner 
and  before  the  stove,  where  it  had  not  been 
for  years;  and  slumped  in  the  chair  was  a 
great  hulk  of  a  man,  with  a  fierce  white 
mustache  and  a  gray-brown  face.  The  room 
smelled  of  a  rank  pipe  and  of  whiskey. 

For  the  first  instant  Marden  thought  his 
father  had  come  back  to  life;  for  the  next,  it 
was  surely  a  dream;  then  he  was  himself 
again,  grasping  wildly  at  the  situation,  and 
thanking  God  that  his  mother  had  died  before 
this  thing  could  happen. 

"Oh,  I  've  got  no  good  o*  me  daughters 
Since  Barney  came  ashore'* — 

growled  the  apparition,  and  spat  again,  so 
that  the  warped  stove  sizzled.  Then,  as  if 
conscious  of  the  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  he 
looked  up  and  saw  Marden  gripping  the  door 
frame.  For  all  the  world,  the  big  face  and 
staring,  puffy  eyes  were  those  of  the  old 
captain,  John  Sebright. 

"Hello,  podner,"  he  grunted,  half  surly, 


172  BEACHED  KEELS 

half  cheerful,  "who  might  you  be?  An' 
where  's  the  inmates  o'  this  here  shanty,  / 
want  to  know?"  Then  suddenly,  his  eyes 
staring  wider  and  a  grin  of  foolish  astonish- 
ment spreading  over  his  brown  face, — 
"Well,  if  it  ain't  the  kid,  by  James  Rice!" 
And  with  surprising  quickness  for  a  man  of 
his  bulk,  he  was  out  of  the  chair  and  wringing 
Marden  by  the  hand,  with  roars  of  laughter 
that  made  the  windows  rattle.  "Ho,  ho,  ho! 
I  wouldn't  'a'  knowed  ye,  Mard,  my  boy, 
—  I  wouldn't  'a'  knowed  ye,  honest!  O-oh, 
ho,  ho!" 

Marden  let  him  go  on  shaking  the  hand, 
but  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  The 
other  suddenly  stopped  and  stared. 

"He  don't  know  me!  By  the  Lord  Harry, 
he  don't  know  me!"  he  cried,  and  burst 
into  enormous  guffaws. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Marden  quietly,  pulling 
his  hand  away,  for  he  too  had  a  strong  arm. 
"You  're  Lee."  He  added  with  an  effort, 
"You're   my  brother." 

"Right  you  are,  boy,"  cried  Lee,  laughing 
still,  "Lee  Sebright,  otherwise  Bat. —   But 


WILD   JUSTICE  173 

you  don't  seem  so  mighty  glad  to  see  your 
brother,  either,"  he  grumbled;  and  then 
cheering  up  again,  "That 's  all  right,  boy. 
You  '11  like  me  better,  more  ye  see  o'  me. 
Everybody  does.  Say,  I  was  afraid  the' 
was  n't  nobody  at  home,  anyway.  Where  's 
the  old  woman  ^  " 

Marden  shot  him  a  black  look. 

"If  you  mean  our  mother,"  said  he,  "she 
died  while  you  were  away." 

Looking  his  elder  brother  square  in  the 
face,  he  read  there  a  genuine  surprise,  which 
gave  way  to  genuine  dejection.  At  least,  the 
gross  joviality  of  the  man  oozed  out  of  his 
hulking  body,  and  he  stood  crestfallen, 
thumbing  his  pipe-bowl,  and  looking  down 
at  his  feet,  which  were  braced  widely  apart 
as  if  on  shipboard. 

"  Well,  now,  that 's  noos  for  ye,"  said  he, 
shaking  his  great  head  gloomily.  "  That 's 
what  I  call  downright  noos  for  ye.  Is  that 
straight,  Mard,  boy?  Well,  —  I  swear!  It 
don't  seem  possible.  She  was  —  It  don't 
seem  possible.  Why,  look  a-here,"  he  cried 
petulantly,  "here  was  me  a-thinkin'  bow  glad 


174  BEACHED  KEELS 

she  'd  be  to  see  me,  and  a-lookin'  for'ard  to 
comin'  home,  and  —  and  —  a-lookin'  for'ard 
to  it,  ye  know" —  He  stepped  back,  and, 
leaning  against  the  edge  of  the  table,  pulled 
his  fierce  white  mustache,  and  stared  weakly 
at  the  floor. 

"You  seem  to  have  looked  for'ard  to  it 
long  enough,"  said  Marden  dryly.  *' Mean- 
time, she  died  —  six  years  ago  last  April.  I 
wasn't  so  clever  as  this  Yankee  here,  and 
must  go  away  to  sea  to  keep  her  alive  through 
the  winter.  But  she  died," — his  voice  was 
like  flint,  —  *'  and  she  died  alone,  because  she 
never  told  them  how  sick  she  was.  And  I 
was  enjoying  myself  at  sea,  and  so  were  you, 
—  oh,  I  'm  with  you  there,  —  and  we  were 
both  looking  for'ard  to  coming  home!  Ah, 
I  tell  you  we  're  a  fine  pair  of  sons!" 

The  rebuke  reached  the  elder  brother, 
who  stood  like  a  whipped  schoolboy.  But 
it  contained  subtleties  beyond  him,  for  he 
replied  at  last,  in  a  tone  of  piety,  — 

"Well,  boy,  we  must  make  the  best  of  it, 
I  s'pose.  We  both  had  our  faults,  says  you. 
An'  't  was  a  sad  home-comin'  for  you,  an'  a 


WILD   JUSTICE  175 

sadder  one  for  me,  ye  see,  bein'  gone  longer. 
If  't  was  to  do  over  again,  we  'd  do  better. 
Well,  here  's  our  comfort,"  —  and  before 
Harden  could  stop  him,  he  had  pulled  a 
black  bottle  from  his  pocket,  and  taken  a 
long  swig,  leaning  back  over  the  table  till  the 
sunlight  shone  through  his  white  mustache. 
"Here,"  said  he,  "have  some.  It'll  cheer 
us  up." 

Harden  snatched  the  bottle  from  his  hand, 
and  whirled  it  out  of  the  door  far  down  the 
bank. 

"There  '11  be  none  o'  that  in  this  house," 
he  cried,  his  gray  eyes  blazing,  "nor  out  of  it, 
while  we  're  talking  o'  such  matters!" 

Lee  sprang  from  the  table,  bulky  but  active, 
with  knotted  fists  and  an  ugly  face  flushed 
purple. 

"  Wha'  d'  ye  mean  ? "  he  bellowed.  "  Who 
are  you  to  take  a  man's  drink  away  from 
him  ?  Do  you  own  this  house  ?  It 's  much 
mine  as  yours,  an'  if  I  want  to  take  a  drink  in 
it,  or  anything  else,  what  '11  you  do  about  it  ? 
Hey?" 

Marden  stepped  closer.     He  stood  very 


176  BEACHED  KEELS 

straight,  and  looked  very  proud  and  dan- 
gerous in  his  anger. 

**  Hey  ?  What  '11  you  do  about  it  ?  "  roared 
his  brother. 

"I'll  smash  your  face,"  he  answered, 
slowly  and  incisively,  as  if  giving  a  piece  of 
advice. 

Through  the  open  door  came  the  faint 
whinnying  of  the  horses  on  the  point;  the 
clock  on  the  shelf  ticked  heavily;  and  Lee 
breathed  as  if  he  had  been  running.  The 
two  brothers  stood  ominously  close,  looking 
each  other  in  the  eye.  Though  one  was  a 
stripling  beside  the  other's  gigantic  width, 
they  were  both  strong  men,  both  physically 
brave,  both  at  white  heat.  Yet  the  power  of 
victory  shone  like  a  light  through  Marden's 
eyes,  and  the  older  brother  saw  it.  He  stood 
undecided  for  an  instant,  then  struck  his 
colors  and  unclinched  his  fists. 

"Why,  look  a-here,"  said  he,  turning  it  off 
with  an  uneasy  laugh.  "Look  here  at  us, 
would  ye?  Sixteen  years,  an'  here  we  are 
like  a  couple  o'  gamecocks !  Mard,  boy,  I  like 
yer  spunk,  damn  me  if  I  don't.    'D  lick  yer 


WILD   JUSTICE  177 

big  brother,  would  ye?"  His  good  nature 
broke  out  again.  "By  the  Lord,  a  chip  o'  the 
old  linkumvity  block!  Ho,  ho,  ho!  I  '11  give 
ye  credit  fer  that,  buster!" 

And  he  would  have  clapped  Marden  on  the 
shoulder  —  but  did  not. 

"What's  the  use  of  manhandlin'  each 
other  over  half  a  longneck.?"  he  sneered 
genially.  "  'T  wan't  no  better  'n  rot-gut, 
anyhow,  an'  the'  's  lots  more  where  that  come 
from.  Ye  see,"  he  added  with  a  face  and  a 
voice  of  great  candor,  "I  don't  bear  no 
malice.  A  word  and  a  blow,  as  the  old  sayin' 
is,  an'  all  right  again.  That 's  my  style.  I 
like  yer  spirit,  lad,  /  tell  you.  —  Oh,  well,  if 
ye  want  to  be  sulky,  sail  ahead,  and  have  yer 
own  way!" 

He  went  over  to  the  big  chair,  slumped  into 
it  once  more,  lighted  his  pipe,  and  spat  on  the 
stove.  But  he  was  too  well  pleased  with  his 
magnanimity  to  stay  silent  long,  for  presently 
he  began  to  hum,  or  rather  grumble :  — 

**  Wey,  hey,  blow  a  man  down. 

An'  they  all  shipped  fer  sailors  aboard  the  Black  Ball. 
Oh,  give  the  wrad  time  fer  to  blow  a  man  down." 


178  BEACHED  KEELS 

"That 's  all  right,"  he  added  consolingly. 
"That's  all  right,  Mard.  You'll  like  me. 
Every  one  does  as  knows  me." 

Harden  looked  at  him,  where  the  heavy 
shoulders  bulged  beyond  the  chair-back,  and 
was  torn  between  laughter,  scornful  silence, 
and  tears.  At  least  he  was  the  master,  and  he 
felt  thankful,  though  he  had  had  no  doubt  at 
any  moment.  For  a  long  time  he  stood  watch- 
ing, while  his  brother  smoked,  and  spat,  and 
growled  snatches  of  song. 

"That 's  the  shotgun  I  shot  the  loon  with," 
Lee  broke  in  pensively.  "An'  that 's  the 
Gilderoy  a-hangin'  there,  same  as  when  we 
was  boys,  ain't  it  ?  A  fine  ship  she  must  'a' 
been,  an'  a  fine  man  as  run  her.  The'  ain't 
no  more  ships  like  her  these  days.  Sawin' 
'em  off  fer  coal-barges,  they  are  now.  All 
the  ships  now 's  coffins  with  three  sticks  in  'em, 
or  little  better.  Well,  say,  Mard,"  emptying 
his  pipe  on  the  stove-lid,  "ain't  it  gettin' 
round  time  to  eat,  huh?" 

That  was  a  strange  supper  the  two  brothers 
ate  together  at  the  table  by  the  window  where 
Marden  and  his  mother  had  used  to  face 


WILD   JUSTICE  179 

each  other.  Lee  did  most  of  the  eating,  and 
all  the  talking,  which  ran  chiefly  on  his 
voyages  and  what  a  figure  he  had  cut  in  the 
world, —  strange  disconnected  yarns,  jump- 
ing from  port  to  port,  from  London  to  Val- 
paraiso, Melbourne,  and  Hong  Kong.  Some 
were  funny,  some  rudely  picturesque,  some 
obscene.  Through  them  all  Marden  found 
himself  wondering  to  think  how  easily  he 
might  once  have  gone  on  doing  just  as  this 
other  of  the  Sebright  blood. 

Finally,  when  the  fish  and  bread  and  butter 
and  coffee  had  all  disappeared,  and  Marden 
was  busy  clearing  away  the  things,  the  sailor 
took  to  the  armchair  again  by  the  stove. 

"It 's  a  cold  climate  you  've  got  here,"  he 
grumbled,  huddling  in  the  chair.  "Ongodly 
cold."  But  he  was  evidently  in  gross  com- 
fort, for  he  sat  there  gorged,  staring  in  front 
of  him,  and  from  time  to  time  made  a  sucking 
noise  through  his  teeth  that  sounded  in  the 
room  as  loud  as  a  man  chirruping  to  a 
horse. 

By  lamplight  he  seemed  once  more  like 
the  ghost  of  the  old  captain,  so  that  Marden, 


180  BEACHED  KEELS 

sitting  at  the  window  and  watching  him  in 
silence,  felt  an  obsession  of  unreality. 

Toward  nine  o'clock  Lee  roused  himself, 
and   looked   about. 

"Say,  mate,  I  'm  a-goin'  to  turn  in.  I  '11 
take  this  here  room  on  the  lower  deck,  I 
guess.  Hullo,  it 's  locked.  Where 's  the 
key  ?  "    And  he  shook  the  door. 

"Never  you  mind,"  said  his  brother,  with 
a  calmness  he  did  not  feel.  "That 's  closed 
for  good,  and  you  '11  sleep  in  the  loft,  —  which- 
ever room  you  want." 

"Humph!"  grunted  the  sailor.  "You're 
free  with  yer  orders,  ain't  ye  .^  " 

Marden  looked  so  dangerous,  however,  that 
he  said  no  more,  but  took  the  lamp  in  one  hand 
and  grappled  the  canvas  bag  in  the  other. 

"It 's  a  pretty  poor  sort  o'  home-comin'," 
he  growled,  kicking  the  little  deal  door  open, 
and  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  stair  with  his 
pirate  face  shining  brown  and  evil  in  the 
lamplight.  "It 's  a  pretty  poor  sort  o'  home- 
comin',  to  find  yer  old  woman  gone  an'  yer 
brother  turned  into  a  teetotal  parson.  That 's 
what  I  say." 


WILD   JUSTICE  181 

The  door  clinked  behind  him.  Harden, 
left  in  darkness  but  for  the  firelight  through 
the  chinks  in  the  stove,  heard  the  heavy  feet 
go  clumping  upstairs.  Then  there  came  a 
stirring  about  and  creaking  boards  overhead, 
and  growls,  and  boots  dropped  heavily,  then 
silence,  and  at  last  tremendous  snores.  Fum- 
bling in  the  dark,  he  took  the  key  from  be- 
hind the  spyglass,  to  hang  it  by  a  string 
about  his  neck.  Then  he  sat  there  by  the 
table,  and  thought,  and  thought.  The 
creature  overhead  seemed  actually  to  weigh 
down  upon  him  and  the  whole  house.  But 
he  felt  equal  to  the  burden,  and  even  resigned, 
now  that  it  had  so  happily  come  six  years  too 
late.  He  sat  thinking  and  thinking,  long 
after  the  gleam  of  the  fire  had  died.  At  last, 
from  bodily  weariness,  he  fell  into  a  doze  and 
then  into  a  sleep,  with  his  head  on  his  arms. 

When  he  woke  the  dawn  was  glimmering 
in  the  window  beside  him.  Heavy  with 
sleep,  he  stared  about  and  thought  drunkenly 
that  it  must  have  been  a  dream;  but  next 
instant  the  loud  snoring  in  the  loft  set  him 
right. 


182  BEACHED  KEELS 


THE  SEBRIGHT  BLOOD 

For  the  first  day  or  two  of  their  Hf e  together, 
it  seemed  again  to  Marden  as  if  it  were  all  a 
dream,  as  if  his  brother  had  long  ago  been 
drowned  at  sea,  and  this  were  a  phantom 
come  to  torment  him  in  the  lonely  house. 
The  reality  of  the  thing  soon  came  back  to 
him,  however.  Lee  was  too  much  in  the 
flesh,  too  loud  and  jovial  and  earthy.  With 
that  terrible  ease  with  which  a  man  adapts 
himself  to  anything,  the  younger  brother 
became  used  to  having  the  older  about. 
Marden  saw  his  past  life,  alone  or  with  his 
mother  in  the  house,  as  some  distant  memory 
almost  in  a  golden  age,  a  quiet  interregnum 
between  the  tyrants  of  circumstance.  By 
brute  weight  this  new  duty  crushed  together 
the  epochs  of  his  life,  joining  the  present  to 
that  past  when  old  John  Sebright  had  been 
a  growling  nightmare  in  the  house.  The 
northern  autumn,  a  season  of  paradox  when 
nature  grows  more  sad  and  cold,  while  the 


WILD   JUSTICE  183 

young  blood  flows  brisker  in  the  veins,  drew 
slowly  with  ironical  sunlight  across  the  dy- 
ing fields  and  through  the  shivering  trees. 
And  by  November,  when  the  first  flurry  of 
snow  whirled  in  the  air,  it  seemed  to  Marden 
as  if  he  had  always  lived  so,  guarding  the 
closed  door  against  this  creature  of  his  own 
blood. 

Their  life  was  together,  yet  vastly  separate. 
When  Lee  found  his  brother  unmoved  by 
stories  that  had  set  all  the  forecastle  in  an 
uproar,  he  grew  more  surly  and  silent  indoors. 
By  tacit  agreement  the  two  saw  less  of  each 
other.  Whoever  came  first  to  table  left  the 
bread  and  the  knife  lying  ready  for  the  other; 
and  if  it  were  Lee,  there  were  always  very 
dirty  dishes  left  to  be  washed,  while  he  was  out 
lounging  about  the  village  from  morning  till 
night.  In  fine  weather  he  never  came  home 
at  noon,  which  made  it  easier  for  Marden, 
who  must  keep  a  constant  but  secret  watch 
upon  him  and  the  house.  This  was  not  hard 
to  do,  so  far  as  that  the  season  of  clam-digging 
was  virtually  over.  Yet  it  became  very  dull 
work,  —  always  to  be  on  hand  as  if  by  chance. 


184  BEACHED  KEELS 

always  to  outwatch  him  at  night,  —  and 
always  the  same  old  songs  in  the  throaty 
bass,  the  stories  out  of  the  gutter,  or  out  of 
the  scuppers  and  the  bilge,  the  same  boasting, 
the  same  sneers,  the  tobacco  smoke,  the 
spitting,  the  odor  of  bad  liquor. 

In  the  matter  of  this  same  liquor  there 
appeared  a  droll  sign  of  the  younger  brother's 
mastery,  which  after  the  open  quarrel  had 
come  to  be  silently  recognized.  Lee  never 
again  attempted  to  bring  a  bottle  indoors. 
But  whether  in  fair  weather  or  rain,  whether 
on  a  hot  summer  noon  or  a  bitter  morning 
when  the  snow  clogged  the  door  knee-high, 
he  would  tramp  to  the  shelf,  take  down  the  old 
brass  spyglass,  and  with  a  growl  —  "  Here  's 
for  a  look  at  yer  damn  fresh  water  shippin'  " 
—  would  be  gone  outdoors  to  some  hiding- 
place  or  other.  At  night,  it  was,  "Well,  let 's 
see  if  all 's  snug  alow  and  aloft."  He  always 
came  back  more  bitter  or  more  gay,  according 
to  the  mood  in  which  he  had  set  out.  And 
Harden,  who  could  rule  him  drunk  or  sober, 
was  content  to  let  it  go  at  this. 

Drunk  he  was  for  the  most  part,  between 


WILD   JUSTICE  185 

visits  to  his  private  cache,  somewhere  under 
a  rail  fence  behind  the  house,  and  visits  to 
Jim  Driscoll's  secret  barroom.  This  last, 
a  secret  which  all  the  town  knew,  was  in  a 
tumbledown  shanty,  with  windows  shuttered 
and  barred,  on  the  most  rickety  wharf  of  all 
the  crazy  old  piles.  Here,  where  one  dim 
kerosene  lamp  burned  night  and  day  from 
among  the  bottles  behind  the  greasy  bar,  Lee 
spent  much  of  his  time,  making  -friends  over 
a  glass  of  beer  or  rum  and  water.  What  little 
money  he  had  brought  home  he  spent  quickly 
and  generously  on  these  friends,  as  he  after- 
ward spent  what  he  could  borrow  from 
Marden  on  various  pretenses,  and  what  little 
he  got  by  spasmodic  efforts  at  clam-digging. 
His  favorite  trick  was  to  borrow  somebody's 
sailboat,  take  a  party  of  summer  people  out, 
run  them  cleverly  aground  on  the  bar  or 
elsewhere,  and,  after  entertaining  them  with 
sea  stories,  overcharge  them  for  the  loss  of 
his  time  in  getting  home  so  much  later  than 
they  had  agreed.  The  profits  of  these  social 
afternoons  he  would  spend  freely  at  Driscoll's 
in  still  more  social  evenings.    And  the  boozy 


186  BEACHED  KEELS 

loungers  admired  his  cleverness  and  his 
knowledge  of  men  and  cities. 

"Why,  look  a-here,"  he  would  cry  some- 
times, leaning  against  the  bar,  with  his 
piratical  mustache  bristling  and  his  slouch 
hat  raked  over  one  ear.  "Look  now,  what 
do  you  swabs  know  about  life,  huh.?  Ever 
been  in  Archangel,  or  London,  or  Fernando 
Po,  or  South  Georgia,  or  Candlemas,  or  the 
Tonga  Islands,  or  Noo  Caledonia,  or  Lisbon, 
or  Sitka,  or  Bombay  ?  "  He  pounded  the  bar 
till  the  dregs  leaped  upward  in  his  glass.  "  No, 
says  you,  never  a  one  of  'em!  But  I  have, 
mind  ye,  an'  more  to  boot;  an'  I  've  seen 
men,  an'  women,  too.  Aw,  hell"  —  and  in  a 
tone  of  great  disgust  he  would  launch  into 
one  of  his  thousand  yarns.  At  the  end  there 
would  be  loud  laughter,  and  more  drinks,  till 
his  audience  forgot  this  great  man's  contempt 
in  the  flattery  of  his  friendship. 

Strangely  enough,  he  was  not  so  unpopular 
among  the  orderly  people  in  the  village  as  one 
might  have  thought.  His  loud  good  nature 
and  bluff  willingness  to  be  friends  made  him 
tolerated  where  he  was  not  liked.    Then,  too. 


WILD   JUSTICE  187 

he  had  brought  a  fiddle  home  in  the  old 
captain's  bag,  and  was  eager  to  play  it  at 
dances,  which  he  did  with  tipsy  vigor  and 
flourish.  Being  too  large  and  strong  for  a 
butt,  he  became  a  "character."  And  so,  if 
people  laughed  at  Bat  Sebright  behind  his 
back,  they  usually  wore  a  friendly  smile 
when  they  met  him  face  to  face. 

"He  ain't  so  queer  and  offish,  like  his 
brother,"  they  said.  Even  the  rector  took 
something  like  this  view. 

"Those  two  Sebrights,"  he  said,  smiling, 
"are  like  the  man  and  woman  in  the  baro- 
meter. You  never  see  them  together,  and  it 's 
always  cloudy  weather  with  one,  and  sun- 
shine with  the  other." 

Heber  Griswold  was  almost  alone  in 
opposing  this  simile. 

"Humph!"  said  he,  on  hearing  it  reported. 
"  What  ?  Him  ?  Bat  Sebright  ?  Humph !  — 
A  street  angel  and  a  house  devil." 

As  two  years  drifted  along,  and  Bat's 
figure  lost  its  novelty  in  the  village  street, 
more  people  inclined  to  Heber's  opinion. 
The  flavor  of  the  sea  still  clung  about  him. 


188  BEACHED  KEELS 

but  the  romance  had  faded  away.  Perhaps 
he  borrowed  too  many  Uttle  sums ;  perhaps  he 
made  too  free  among  the  sailboats ;  perhaps  he 
waked  too  many  people  when,  almost  every 
midnight  or  early  morning,  he  scuffed  and 
stumbled  home,  roaring  to  some  companion, 
"You  're  the  damnedest  finest  man  on  the 
green  globe!"  or  bellowing  sadly,  to  the 
echoes  of  the  empty  street  and  darkened 
houses :  — 

**  Oh,  they  sank  her  in  the  Low  Lands, 
Lo-ow  Lands,  Lo-ow  Lands, 
Oh,  they  sank  her  in  the  Low  Lands  low! " 

Whatever  it  was,  he  fell  off  in  the  general 
estimation.  His  glory  paled,  like  the  moon 
seen  by  day;  or  like  himself  when,  after  an 
evening  of  hearty  rule,  big  and  flushed  and 
effulgent  on  the  platform  of  the  dance-hall, 
he  came  slouching  home  by  daylight,  blear- 
eyed  and  gray,  and  years  older  in  a  white 
stubble  of  unshaven  beard.  When  the  gossips 
learned  that  Marden  always  sat  up  till  the 
drunkard  was  in  bed,  they  began  to  guess, 
though  vaguely,  why  the  younger  brother, 
too,  looked  so  much  older  and  more  haggard. 


WILD   JUSTICE  189 

Some  of  the  women  in  the  village  stood  out 
longest  in  liking  Bat  Sebright  without  reserve. 
Perhaps  there  were  those  who  hoped  to  gain 
through  him  a  better  acquaintance  with  his 
indifferent  and  inscrutable  brother.  But 
others  liked  him  for  his  own  sake  and  his 
own  taking  way,  which  he  had  none  the  less 
because  he  bragged  of  it.  Certainly  there  had 
been  rumors  and  veiled  jokes  within  his  first 
fortnight  ashore,  and  little  by  little  he  walked 
in  an  inglorious  halo  of  scandal,  which  grew 
more  luminous  with  the  affair  of  old  Barclay's 
housekeeper.  He  met  her,  it  seems,  at  a 
dance  where  he  was  in  one  of  his  most  dash- 
ing and  picturesque  moods.  The  affair  soon 
became  notorious. 

Yet  Marden  did  not  hear  of  it,  and  found 
it  out  for  himself  only  by  accident.  Once, 
when  the  high  tide  had  stopped  his  work  for 
the  afternoon,  he  was  walking  where  the 
up-country  road  dipped  into  a  valley  of 
sombre  firs.  From  time  to  time,  out  of  the 
dark  woods  on  either  hand  and  into  the  sun- 
shine on  the  dusty  road,  rabbits  came  hopping, 
lean  and  brown  in  their  summer  coats.    To 


190  BEACHED  KEELS 

watch  them  the  closer,  Marden  walked  very 
quietly  over  the  short  parched  grass  of  the 
roadside.  And  so,  turning  the  flank  of  a 
granite  boulder  noiselessly,  he  came  upon  his 
brother,  who  stood  with  his  broad  back 
toward  him,  and  who  held  in  a  bearlike  hug 
the  woman  of  that  noon  on  the  beach.  In  the 
same  moment  she  struggled  free,  with  a  little 
shriek;  but  she  was  quite  shameless,  for  with 
what  sight  there  was  in  her  wild,  glazed 
eyes  she  looked  only  scorn  at  the  intruder. 
Marden  passed  without  change  of  stride  or 
turn  of  head,  though  his  heart  beat  curiously 
faster;  and  when  their  loud  derision  followed 
him,  it  was  he  who  was  both  angry  and 
ashamed. 

That  night  Lee  came  home  late,  but  sober 
enough.  He  sat  down  by  the  open  window, 
and  smoked ;  and  while  Marden  glowered 
from  the  farthest  corner,  he  looked  out  with 
great  satisfaction  across  the  harbor.  Pre- 
sently, spitting  out  of  the  window  upon  a  tall 
stalk  of  London  Pride  so  that  it  swayed  with 
its  flowers  red  in  the  lamplight,  he  said:  — 

"Lord,  don't   she  think  small  o'  you!  — 


WILD   JUSTICE  191 

Bess,  I  mean.  —  Say,  she  would  n't  give  you 
hell-room,  honest.  —  Dunno  why,  but,"  he 
added  with  malice, "  she  's  a  fine  judge  o'  men. 
Knows  me  like  a  book." 

"That's  enough,"  said  Marden  savagely. 
"  You  '11  mention  her  no  more  in  this  house, 
do  you  hear.?" 

"Jealous,  huh?"  chuckled  the  sailor. 

"Shut  your  head,"  said  his  brother. 

He  was  obeyed.  Not  only  for  that  evening, 
but  from  then  on,  they  exchanged  no  further 
word  of  Barclay's  Bess.  But  Lee,  imagining 
himself  the  cause  of  a  bitter  jealousy,  so 
gloried  in  himself  as  a  dramatic  figure  that  he 
became  generous,  after  his  fashion.  True, 
there  came  a  period  of  great  suUenness  that 
October,  when  he  had  been  away  for  three 
days,  and  came  back  old  and  transformed, 
with  the  white  stubble  covering  his  face,  and 
his  nose  broken,  and  a  bloody  cheekbone. 
He  had  the  doctor  in  to  set  his  nose.  Marden 
paid  for  it.  Meantime  the  village  rang  with 
the  saga  of  a  fight  in  the  hawthorn  lane  on  the 
Barclay  farm  between  Bat  Sebright  and  the 
old  red-bearded  Viking.    And  for  a  fortnight 


192  BEACHED  KEELS 

the  sailor  nursed  himself  and  cursed  himself 
by  the  stove. 

This  must  have  been  only  an  episode, 
however,  for  his  good  humor  returned,  and  in 
a  month  soared  at  higher  pitch  than  ever. 
But  now  that  winter  was  on,  Harden  found 
him  more  of  a  "house  devil"  again.  He 
went  out  oftener  with  the  spyglass  to  watch 
the  shipping  from  behind  the  rail  fence,  and 
as  the  weather  grew  worse  he  sat  in  the  big 
chair,  and  smoked,  spat,  and  fiddled,  or 
grumbled  out  his  songs.  On  evenings  when 
the  snow  or  the  cold  kept  him  from  going  to 
Driscoll's  or  elsewhere,  he  often  did  his  best 
to  be  entertaining,  with  no  encouragement 
beyond  silence. 

One  winter  night,  after  scraping  lugu- 
briously on  the  fiddle,  Lee  broke  out  into  a 
song  of  incredible  filth. 

"  That  '11  do,"  said  Marden  from  his  corner. 

The  sailor  leered  at  him,  but  stopped,  and 
contented  himself  with  sucking  noisily  through 
his  teeth.    Then  he  began  another :  — 

"...  But  now  we  're  ojBF  to  Adelaide 
For  to  give  those  girls  a  chance. 


WILD   JUSTICE  193 

"  Walk  her  round,  boys-oh-boys, 
We  're  all  bound  to  go. 
Walk  her  round,  my  "  — 

.  "Please  don't  sing  that,  either,"  Marden 
broke  in  with  unusual  gentleness. 

His  brother  looked  up  in  wrathful  surprise. 

"  Why,  look  a-here,"  he  bellowed.  "  What 's 
the  matter  with  you  ?  The'  ain't  a  word  o' 
dirt  in  that  song,  so  help  me." 

Marden  could  not  have  explained  to  him 
what  echoes  it  had  raised,  and  was  silent. 

"You  're  a  beauty,  you  are,"  growled  Lee. 
"You  ain't  got  common  sense.  A  man  's  got 
to  come  down  to  psalm-singin',  like  a  reg'lar 
Rescue  Mission.  —  Well,  here's  one  for  ye, 
parson,  that  I  learned  from  Scotty  McKen- 
zie."  And,  with  a  fair  imitation  of  the  Scots, 
he  croaked  away :  — 

"  John  come  kiss  me  now, 
John  come  kiss  me  now, 
John  come  kiss  me  by  and  by. 
And  mak  na  mair  adow. 

**The  Lord  thy  God  I  am. 
That,  John,  doth  thee  call. 
John  signifies  man. 
By  grace  ce-les-ti-all. 


194  BEACHED  KEELS 

"So  it  *s  John  come  kiss  me  now, 
John  come  kiss  me  now, 
John  come  kiss  me  by  and  by, 
And  mak  na  mair  adow." 

"There  's  a  godly  one  for  ye,"  he  sneered. 
Hereafter  this  became  his  favorite  song  in- 
doors, and  he  sang  it  in  the  black  joy  of  his 
heart. 

But  this  was  not  so  bad  as  his  long  evenings 
of  drunken  gloom,  when  he  sat  there  with  a 
hopeless  face,  silent,  or  growling  from  under 
his  white  mustache,  "Here  we  are  on  a  lee 
shore  an'  the  riggin'  rotten ! "  Then  it  seemed 
as  if  Marden  were  sitting  by  lamplight  in  a 
house  of  ghosts.  The  loss  of  sleep  and  the 
constant  watching  had  worn  him  thin,  febrile, 
and  morbid.  Often,  now,  the  old  captain 
was  there  bodily  before  his  eyes ;  behind  him, 
in  the  room  with  the  closed  door,  his  mother 
sat  trembling  with  fear,  as  he  remembered 
her  in  his  boyhood.  It  was  no  fancy,  but 
reality.  Through  all  that  hideous  time  he 
felt  his  mother's  actual  presence  in  the  house, 
a  comfort  and  a  strength.  Yet  the  long 
winter  of  spectral  evenings  told  on  him.    By 


WILD   JUSTICE  195 

spring  the  world  seemed  feverish  and  phan- 
tasmagoric. By  summer,  though  he  could 
work  again,  he  dug  the  clams  in  a  frenzy  of 
hatred  toward  them  and  all  creatures  of  the 
sea,  of  which  he  now  felt  a  physical  loathing. 
Given  a  Hamlet  who  lives  with  his  ghosts, 
who  has  no  power  of  foolery  to  relieve  his 
overwrought  mind,  and  whose  mission  is  one 
of  endurance  harder  than  action,  you  will  find 
him  grow  dangerous.  Marden  himself  began 
to  feel  that  something  must  happen. 

At  length  something  did.  In  August  the 
Yankee,  hearing  of  some  new  clam-beds  at 
the  head  of  the  bay,  came  to  get  Marden  to 
drive  there  with  him  and  inspect  them.  Since 
the  road  ran  thirty  miles  about,  it  meant  stay- 
ing there  over  night,  and  Marden  at  first  re- 
fused. But  while  the  Yankee  lingered  on  the 
knoll,  arguing  nasally,  Lee  came  out  of  the 
house  and  hailed  them. 

"Ahoy,  parson,  I  'm  a-goin'  off  fer  three 
days.  D'  ye  hear.?"  And  he  slouched  off 
across  the  fields  into  the  up-country  road. 

As  the  sailor  always  told  the  truth  about 
his  excursions,  and  —  if  anything  —  forecast 


196  BEACHED  KEELS 

them  too  short,  Marden  gave  in  to  his  em- 
ployer, locked  up  carefully,  and  went  along. 
But  he  was  uneasy  all  the  time  they  were 
gone,  and  in  the  strange  bed  he  lay  awake  all 
night,  listening  to  the  rain.  When  finally,  in 
mid-afternoon  of  the  next  day,  the  Yankee 
pulled  up  the  rattling  wagon  and  let  him  out 
where  the  road  turned  into  the  village  street, 
Marden  took  to  his  heels  and  ran  through  the 
tall  grass  to  the  knoll.  Somehow  it  was  like 
his  first  coming  home  from  sea,  to  find  him- 
self alone. 

He  was  climbing  the  path,  when  suddenly 
he  looked  at  the  house.  His  heart  stopped 
beating,  then  began  to  pound  against  his  ribs. 
Among  the  woodbine  that  covered  the  end 
nearest  him  the  window  of  his  mother's  room 
stood  open.  It  had  not  been  so  since  the  days 
when  she  had  sat  there  knitting,  to  smile  at 
him  as  he  came  up  the  bank.  For  one  instant 
of  madness  he  expected  to  see  her  face  appear 
in  the  frame  of  woodbine  leaves.  Then  he 
sprang  forward  to  the  door,  sick  with  a  new 
fear. 


WILD   JUSTICE  197 


VI 


"that  thy  days  may  be  long  " 


The  door  was  still  locked.  Puzzled  not  a 
little,  he  turned  the  key,  and  stopped  to 
listen.  All  was  quiet  within.  Wondering,  he 
pushed  the  door  open,  looked  in,  and  was 
astounded. 

The  kitchen,  always  so  orderly,  was  in  the 
dirtiest  confusion.  Over  the  floor  lay  the 
tracks  of  muddy  boots,  with  here  and  there  a 
cake  of  dried  mud.  A  broken  chair  and  the 
fragments  of  a  plate  cluttered  round  the  legs 
of  the  table,  on  which  there  stood,  in  a  litter 
of  dishes,  two  great  empty  bottles.  The 
stuffed  loon  in  the  corner  leaned  its  black 
head  tipsily  against  the  wall,  as  if  it  were  the 
culprit.  Through  the  back  door,  which  stood 
open,  Marden  caught  sight  of  another  bottle 
smashed  at  the  foot  of  the  chopping-block. 
All  this  he  saw  in  a  flash,  thinking,  **  He  came 
home  late,  for  his  boots  were  muddy,  and  I 
did  n't  hear  it  rain  till  nearly  midnight." 
Taking  a  lid  from  the  stove,  he  found  coals 


198  BEACHED   KEELS 

still  smouldering.  Lee  had  been  there  till 
noon  or  thereabout. 

But  next  instant  he  lost  all  use  of  reason. 
The  door  into  his  mother's  room  stood  open, 
splintered  about  the  lock.  With  the  cry  of  an 
animal,  he  darted  in,  and  saw  everything  in  a 
state  of  indescribable  breakage,  as  if  men  had 
been  wrestling  about  there.  Some  one  had 
climbed  in  through  the  window,  shoving  the 
table  aside.  The  knitting  lay  flung  in  a  cor- 
ner, and  beside  it  the  envelope  to  his  letter, 
ripped  open.  The  floor  boards  and  the  rugs 
were  smeared  with  muddy  tracks. 

Marden  shook  his  fist  at  the  cracked  ceiling 
and  at  the  heavens  beyond  it. 

"He'll  pay  for  this!"  he  cried,  choking. 
"He '11  pay  for  this!" 

Then,  as  he  stood  in  dumb  rage,  the  tears 
running  down  his  cheeks,  he  mechanically 
straightened  with  his  foot  the  deerskin  rug 
that  lay  by  the  bureau.  The  movement  un- 
covered something  small  that  shone  on  the 
floor.  He  picked  it  up,  but  dropped  it  as  if 
burned.  He  had  seen  it  shine  before.  It  was 
three  links  of  silver  chain,  on  a  silver  bangle 


WILD   JUSTICE  199 

perforated  with  star-shaped  holes.     Both  of 
them  had  been  there. 

Something  gave  inside  Marden's  head;  he 
shuddered  as  with  ice  and  fire ;  the  room  swam 
black  round  him.  He  heard  a  strange  voice 
cry  in  the  distance,  and  knew  that  it  was  him- 
self. When  the  darkness  cleared  he  found 
himself  standing  on  the  stove  in  the  kitchen, 
tearing  down  the  gun  and  the  powderhorn  from 
over  the  Gilderoy.  He  jumped  to  the  floor 
again,  and,  sobbing  and  whispering  strange 
words,  tugged  with  his  teeth  at  the  wooden 
plug  in  the  horn.  With  the  facility  of  acts  in 
a  dream,  the  black  grains  poured  softly  in ;  the 
wadding  was  rammed  home ;  the  cap  from  the 
little  box  on  the  shelf  slipped  over  the  nip- 
ple precisely;  the  leaden  ball  dropped  plump 
into  the  barrel.    He  deliberated  a  moment. 

"No,  one  bullet 's  enough,"  he  whispered. 
"It   couldn't   miss   him." 

Then  he  searched  wildly  for  a  second  wad, 
but  could  not  find  it,  till  at  last,  ransacking 
the  table  drawer,  he  fished  out  a  scrap  of 
soiled  blue  paper,  written  on  in  a  large  hand. 
He  stopped  and  read  it  carefully :  — 


200 


BEACHED  KEELS 


Drake  caulking  ballast  ports 

Bissant   brasswork 

Ross   ballast 

Edy   butcher 

Moon   optician    , 

Doyle   sailmaker 

Pilotage  to  the  Downs 


forwd 


do.l5. 

do. 

2.17.11 

53.13. 

4 

18.15. 

8 

.18. 

6 

11.  1. 

1 

10.10. 

^298.18.  1 


He  thought  painfully.  "I  don't  believe  this 
is  important,"  he  concluded,  then  crumpled 
the  paper  up  and  rammed  it  home  fiercely, 
enraged  at  the  loss  of  time,  and  with  the 
words,  "Hurry,  hurry!"  coming  in  a  savage 
whisper  from  somewhere. 

He  ran  blindly  out  into  the  hot  sun,  bare- 
headed, gun  in  hand.  For  an  instant  habit 
told  him  to  lock  the  door.  But  the  abomina- 
tion was  done,  the  sanctuary  violated.  With 
a  frantic,  hopeless  gesture  he  turned  again, 
and  ran  down  through  the  fields  into  the  up- 
country  road.  The  heat  had  burned  away  all 
traces  of  the  rain,  so  that  the  silent  yellow 
dust  rose  softly  in  his  trail.  Over  the  hill  he 
ran,  down  through  the  valley  of  firs,  past  the 
granite  boulder,  from  behind  which  a  solitary 
lean  rabbit  hopped  across  his  way  and  into 
the  dark  woods.    Sweating,  breathless,  Mar- 


WILD   JUSTICE  201 

den  ran  on  and  on,  without  sight,  without 
hearing,  and  without  plan  save  for  an  in- 
stinct, a  certainty  that  he  was  in  the  right  path; 
till  suddenly,  as  he  plunged  down  into  a 
gully  that  cleft  an  open  space  through  the 
woods  on  either  side,  a  plan  flashed  into  his 
head,  and  he  stopped,  panting,  blind  with 
sweat  and  tears. 

Beyond,  just  above  the  little  hill  that  wound 
sharply  upward  before  him,  he  knew  that 
the  highway  forked  into  two  roads,  both  of 
which  ran  past  the  great  triangle  of  the 
Barclay  farm.  Lee  might  come  by  either. 
The  thought  of  deliberate  waiting,  of  ambush, 
filled  him  with  nausea.  But  there  must  be 
no  mistake,  —  that  creature  must  not  have 
the  devil's  luck  to  get  by.  He  grounded  his 
gun  in  the  dust,  and  looked  about  the  little 
clearing. 

"It  must  be  here,"  he  thought,  and,  for  all 
his  hurry  in  the  sun,  was  struck  cold  and 
shuddered. 

The  clearing,  an  old  dry  watercourse, 
slanted  down  from  the  left  in  a  tangle  of  low 
bushes  and  weeds.    Marden  chose  the  upper 


202  BEACHED  KEELS 

side  of  the  road,  and  flung  himself  in,  to 
swelter  in  the  fierce  heat. 

He  listened  and  listened  for  footsteps  on  the 
hill,  and  stared  through  the  bushes  till  his 
neck  and  elbows  ached.  Then  while  time 
dragged  by,  long  as  years,  the  details  of  the 
place  grew  focused  out  of  a  blur  into  pain- 
ful and  weary  distinctness.  Trees  stood  out 
from  the  vague  green  wall,  —  cedars,  spruces, 
firs,  alders,  and  a  willow  with  its  leaves  blown 
silver  side  out  in  the  hot,  faint  breeze.  The 
wild  growth  about  him  resolved  itself  into 
bushes  of  dusty,  crumbling  raspberries,  into 
yellow  St.  John's- wort  and  the  sickly  pink  of 
fireweed  and  sheep's-laurel,  into  withered 
caraways,  into  scorched  strawberry  leaves 
with  wiry  runners,  old  nameless  twigs  bleached 
silver  gray,  the  rusty  white  cockades  of  queen- 
of-the-meadow.  The  road  wound  up  over 
the  little  hill  to  the  skyline,  a  bleak  avenue 
of  pebbles  and  dust  between  tall  weedy 
mullein  stalks  and  fat  little  childish  fir  trees 
with  their  pale  green  tips  sticking  up  knee- 
high.  The  very  blades  of  grass  became 
amazingly  diverse  under  his  eyes,  and  ach- 


WILD  JUSTICE  203 

ingly  full  of  the  minutest  life.  The  very 
silence  grew  into  a  thin,  metallic  hum  of  flies 
that  he  had  heard  in  some  other  stillness 
before.  And  over  and  through  it  all  blazed 
and  quivered  the  truculent  heat. 

All  at  once  his  heart  gave  a  jump,  and 
began  to  flutter  in  his  ribs,  little  as  a  kitten's. 
There  were  footsteps  scrambling  among  the 
pebbles  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  He  grasped 
the  gun,  and  craned  his  neck  to  see  above  a 
clump  of  snapdragon.  He  could  have  cried 
out  aloud  in  the  long  suspense.  But  no,  it 
was  not  his  brother:  the  man  was  little  and 
thin.  As  he  came  down  into  the  gully, 
Marden  knew  him  for  Heber  Griswold.  He 
came  very  close,  stopping  once  nearly  opposite 
Marden  to  pluck  a  joint  of  timothy,  which 
he  did  with  difficulty,  it  was  so  dry  and  tough 
with  overripeness.  The  straw  swayed  in  his 
teeth  as  he  passed  on,  smiling  in  quizzical 
meditation.  And  Marden,  lying  smothered 
in  the  underbrush,  found  kindly  feelings 
mingled  in  the  confusion  of  his  heart. 

The  heat  and  the  hum  of  flies  settled  down 
again  more  intensely.     A  long  time  passed. 


204  BEACHED  KEELS 

Finally  a  new  sound  broke  in,  —  the  bell  in 
the  distant  village,  ringing  to  Wednesday 
vespers.  The  old  refrain  started  up  once 
more,  —  "  that  thy  days  may  be  long,  long, 
that  thy  days  may  be  long,"  —  ringing  slowly 
over  and  over  again.  Marden  nodded  over 
his  shoulder  toward  the  sound,  his  teeth  bare 
in  a  grin  of  satirical  friendliness.  "Right 
you  are,  old  fellow,  for  once,"  he  thought, 
while  the  warning  rang  on  in  his  head,  half 
solemnly,  half  in  a  kind  of  black  merri- 
ment. 

Turning  to  watch  again,  he  noticed  a 
mosquito  on  the  gun  barrel,  and  crushed  it 
with  his  finger  mechanically.  The  thing 
must  have  been  biting  him  and  sucking  its 
fill,  for  it  left  a  sticky  smear  of  blood  on  the 
warm  brown  metal.  The  sight  of  blood 
disgusted  him.  He  wiped  his  hand  vigorously 
in  the  shriveled  grass. 

Suddenly,  from  the  trees  above  the  hill,  a 
squirrel  chittered  like  a  fisherman's  reel.  As 
if  it  had  been  a  signal,  there  followed  a  scuff- 
ing among  the  pebbles,  and  in  the  gap  of  the 
bare  road  the  broad  figure  of  Lee  heaved 


WILD   JUSTICE  W5 

against  the  sky.  He  came  slouching  down 
close  by  the  line  of  dusty  mullein  stalks,  and 
almost  reached  the  foot  of  the  gully. 

Marden  leaped  out  into  the  road,  cocking 
the  gun  as  he  stood  up  straight.  At  the  sight 
of  this  squat  creature,  all  the  years  of  smoth- 
ered hatred  blazed  ungovernably. 

"Stop!"  he  cried,  dry  and  harsh. 

The  sailor  jumped  back  with  a  motion  of 
his  arm  like  a  boxer  guarding. 

" Hold  on!  Hold  on,  Mard!"  he  cried  in  a 
strangely  little  voice.  "  I  did  n't  —  it  was  n't 
us,  honest!" 

Each  man,  looking  at  the  other,  knew  that 
the  lie  would  not  serve.  And  Lee  saw  death 
in  the  round  black  muzzle  and  the  blazing 
eyes  behind  it.  Let  it  go  to  his  credit  that  he 
bellowed  like  a  bull  and  hurled  himself  for- 
ward with  great  gnarled  hands  grappling  in 
the  air. 

The  gun  roared  in  the  stifled  gully. 

In  the  cloud  of  smoke  the  sailor  reeled, 
with  a  gray  face  and  his  open  mouth  a  black 
circle;  then  his  bulk  collapsed  like  a  tele- 
scope, or  rather  like  an  empty  meal  sack  that 


206  BEACHED  KEELS 

has  been  held  open' and  suddenly  dropped. 
Marden,  deafened  by  the  explosion,  and  with 
his  shoulder  smarting  from  the  recoil,  gave  a 
loud  cry  as  he  saw  the  man  fall  so  through  the 
smoke,  and  then  jerk  forward  convulsively, 
burying  his  face  in  the  sharp  bristles  of  a  little 
fir  tree,  as  a  heavy  sleeper  might  bury  it  in  a 
pillow.  This  lasted  only  a  moment,  for  the 
body  rolled  over  with  a  terrible  limpness,  and 
lay  on  its  back,  the  twisted  legs  pointing  uphill 
and  the  head  jammed  over  against  one 
shoulder  by  the  weight.  Almost  in  the  same 
instant  there  shuddered  over  the  gray  features 
a  swift  and  mortal  change. 

The  smoke  drew  slowly  up  the  hill,  trail- 
ing in  low-spread  layers  and  wisps  among 
the  lean  mullein  stalks.  With  the  smell  of 
powder  mingled  that  of  burning  paper  from 
the  wads,  which  lay  smoking  among  the 
pebbles  and  dust.  There  also  rose  the 
pungent  odor  of  rum:  in  the  pocket  of  the 
blue  flannel  shirt  that  was  drawn  so  tight  over 
the  huge  chest  a  flat  bottle  had  broken.  The 
cloth  was  dark  and  sopping  with  this,  and 
another  stain,  that  spread.    No  trace  of  red 


WILD   JUSTICE  207 

appeared:  lifeblood  and  rum  soaked  the 
flannel  together,  indistinguishable. 

Harden,  with  gun  grounded,  looked  down 
at  this,  his  thin  face  stern  as  bronze  in 
the  hot  sun,  —  the  face  of  a  soldier  and  a 
priest. 

Slowly  the  ringing  in  his  ears  turned  into 
the  hum  of  flies  that  made  the  silence.  Then 
of  a  sudden  the  place  was  struck  into  dusk. 
The  sun  had  gone  behind  the  trees  above  the 
road,  leaving  the  gully  in  shadow,  as  if  clouded 
over  before  a  storm.  The  hollow  seemed 
also  to  become  cooler.  And  just  then  Harden, 
with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  dead  man's 
face,  lying  half  sidewise,  in  the  stubble  of 
beard,  saw  it  as  if  it  had  been  his  father's. 
At  the  thought,  his  heart  shrank  small  and 
cold:  it  was  as  though  he  had  killed  them 
both.  His  whole  body  unstrung,  like  a 
fiddlestring  when  the  peg  slips.  Without 
another  look  at  the  dead  man,  he  turned  and 
ran  in  panic  and  horror,  shivering  with  cold, 
stumbling  to  his  knees  with  weakness,  back 
into  the  sunlight  and  along  the  deserted 
road. 


208  BEACHED  KEELS 

VII 
THE  CLUE 

Why  he  went  back  to  the  house  he  never 
could  have  told,  any  more  than  how  he  got 
there,  or  whether  he  had  passed  any  one  — 
though  he  had  not  —  on  the  way.  He  only 
knew  that  he  found  himself  sitting  on  the 
millstone  at  the  door,  and  that  in  the  east, 
over  the  sea,  an  ancient  star  shone  bright  in 
mocking  calmness.  He  held  his  head  in  his 
hands,  shuddering  uncontrollably  in  a  tumult 
of  dismay.  He  could  not  rightly  think  what 
he  had  done.  Which  of  them  had  he  killed, 
or  was  it  indeed  both  ?  Why,  why  in  all  the 
welter  of  chances,  had  this  thing  happened  ? 
He  racked  his  brain  for  some  word  of  help, 
but  no  word  came  except  a  fragment  he  had 
been  reading  the  day  before,  —  by  what  right 
had  he  read  it ?  —  the  prayer  of  Elijah :  "It 
is  enough.  Now,  O  Lord,  take  away  my  life, 
for  I  am  not  better  than  my  fathers."  Better  ? 
How  many  times  worse !  They,  rough,  simple 
men,  had  done  what  they  knew,  no  more. 


WILD   JUSTICE  209 

And  he,  what  sacred  things  had  he  not  known, 
what  high  purposes  had  he  not  guarded,  only 
to  dash  them  underfoot! 

He  shook  his  fist  at  the  calm,  inveterate 
star. 

"Who'll  be  the  judge,  then?"  he  asked 
fiercely,  in  a  whisper  more  heart-breaking 
than  a  cry.  "What's  right,  and  what's 
wrong?    And  what  is  there  left?" 

He  found  no  answer,  and  dropped  his  head 
again,  shivering  as  in  a  fever-fit. 

A  horse,  left  alone  in  the  island  pasture 
where  the  tide  had  cut  him  off,  whinnied  out 
of  the  distant  dark.  Even  in  Marden's 
torment,  the  sound  brought  back  that  evening 
when  his  brother  had  returned.  Memories 
and  questions  swarmed  in  his  brain  again, 
rioting.  Why  could  not  he  that  now  lay  there 
dead  in  the  gully,  why  could  not  he  have 
stayed  away  ?  The  world  was  so  big,  and  full 
of  a  million  other  mishaps.  If  he  were  to  die, 
a  drunken  lurch  on  the  string-piece  of  a  pier,  a 
slip  on  an  icy  foot-rope,  and  Fate  would  have 
been  satisfied  without  this  dreadful  means. 
Or  again,  was  it  all  a  fault  of  his,  Marden's  ? 


210  BEACHED  KEELS 

Could  he  not  have  treated  Lee  differently? 
Had  he  not  been  too  stern  and  sour  with  the 
poor  devil?  "For  God  knows,"  he  cried 
within  himself,  "we  are  all  poor  devils  to- 
gether." Had  it  been  a  test,  long,  secret, 
subtle,  and  had  he  failed  once  more  through 
dullness?  Perhaps  all  the  years  of  night- 
long watching,  without  complaint,  showed 
him  only  a  hard-hearted  prig,  a  weakling 
Pharisee.  Or  if  not,  were  they  all  to  go  for 
nothing  because  the  watchman  had  been 
false  a  single  night?  These  and  a  hundred 
worse  questions  hounded  him  over  a  black, 
shifting  wilderness  of  despair.  He  was  alone. 
There  was  no  creature  believed  in  him  or 
loved  him,  not  even  his  mother,  of  whom  he 
dared  not  think.  The  remembrance  of  the 
starry  night  aboard  the  Merry  Andrew,  of  the 
spring  walks  alone  that  had  strengthened  his 
devotion,  rose  in  his  mind  like  pale  glimpses 
in  the  life  of  some  other  man,  long  ago. 
Surely  that  boy  —  and  yet  here  he  sat,  a 
murderer,  with  the  eldest  primal  curse  upon 
him.  He  groaned  aloud,  and  flinging  back 
his  head,  looked  up  into  the  infinite  brightness 


WILD  JUSTICE  211 

and  distance  of  the  stars,  from  whence  came 
no  help.  His  sight  and  his  thought  could  no 
longer  penetrate  among  them,  to  thread  a 
measureless  way  from  depth  to  outermost 
depth,  and  be  cleansed  in  the  wonder  of 
space.  His  head  only  grew  the  dizzier,  with 
thoughts  confined  and  whirling. 

A  light,  flurried  footstep  sounded  in  the 
path  close  by.  He  sprang  up.  People  in  the 
world  —  he  had  forgotten  them,  and  here 
was  one  coming,  perhaps  to  speak  empty 
words,  perhaps  to  ask  why  he  had  done  what 
was  done. 

He  hoped  the  last,  and  was  prepared  to 
answer  humbly. 

Before  he  knew  what  was  happening,  a 
woman  had  run  and  flung  her  arms  about 
him  where  he  stood  by  the  larch  tree.  Surely 
it  was  a  dream,  this  swift  embrace  in  the 
dark.  But  she  was  alive,  warm,  breathless, 
and  was  shaken  violently  as  she  clung  to 
him. 

"Oh,"  she  panted,  in  tempestuous  relief 
and  hurry,  "oh,  why  didn't  you  —  why 
did  n't  you  —  oh,  you  fool! "    She  laughed  in 


2U  BEACHED   KEELS 

breathless  and  wild  happiness,  her  voice 
smothered  by  his  clothing. 

**  Why  did  n't  you  let  me  know  ?"  she  cried. 
"  You  're  so  deep  —  I  never  guessed  —  not  till 
I  found  him  there —  A-ah!"  she  shuddered, 
and  clung  to  him  as  if  she  would  have  fallen. 

"There  was  blood  on  him,"  she  whispered 
brokenly.  "And  it's  on  me  now  —  my 
sleeves.  He  was  all  wet  when  I  —  I  dragged 
him  into  the  bushes.  It  was  in  the  dark  — 
and  O  God,  so  heavy !  —  Let 's  go,  let 's  go, 
let 's  go,  quick!" 

"Where?  Go  where .^"  Marden  asked  in 
amazement.  He  tried  to  raise  her  face,  but 
could  not,  from  where  she  held  it  buried 
against  his  side  and  in  the  crook  of  his  arm. 

"Across  —  over  to  the  other  side,"  she 
said.  "  Him  an'  I  was  goin'  anyway  to-night. 
That 's  why  we  —  But  that 's  before  I  knew 
what  you  —  Come  on,  the  boat 's  ready  hid. 
Come  along!" 

Marden  slowly  drew  near  the  brink  of 
comprehension.  The  woman  suddenly  raised 
her  head,  seizing  him  anew  and  fiercely  by 
the  arm. 


WILD   JUSTICE  213 

"You  must  n't  be  afraid  of  me  any  more," 
she  coaxed,  still  in  a  whisper.  "  Don't  be  so 
cold  to  me.  I  understand  you  now,  don't  I  ? 
Don't  I?"  she  repeated  vehemently,  shaking 
him.  And  she  gave  a  little  happy  laugh  that 
rang  dreadful  in  Marden's  ears.  "Oh,  you 
quiet  men!" 

Marden  looked  at  her,  silent.  His  eyes, 
accustomed  to  the  starlight,  saw  with  an 
unaccountable  clearness.    The  woman's  face 

—  the  odd,  alluring  face,  triangular  like  a 
kitten's  —  was  upturned  to  his  once  mofe, 
and  once  more  was  mysteriously  pale.  This 
time,  at  night,  there  was  something  magic 
and  phantasmal  in  the  yearning  darkness  of 
the  great  eyes.  He  knew  her  thoroughly  vile, 
a  byword  of  the  countryside;  yet  for  one 
moment  she  stood  before  him  mystical,  a 
sorceress,  and  he  wondered  if  there  were  not 
help  in  her. 

"Come  on!"  She  tugged  at  him  with 
triumphant  energy.     "It's  all  plain  as  day 

—  an'  easy.  See.  I  've  got  the  money  that 
we  —  I  've  got  money  enough.  We  '11  go 
to  the  American  side,  an'  then  to  the  cities, 


214  BEACHED  KEELS 

an'  it  '11  be  a  week  before  they  find  it  — 
him,  there,  in  the  bushes  —  so  they  '11  never 
get  us  in  God's  world.  We  'd  planned  it 
already  —  but  that  was  when  I  thought  you 
didn't  care.  —  An'  the  cities!"  she  cried. 
"That 's  the  place  to  live.  I  '11  show  you,  for 
I  know  'em  all.  That 's  where  Jim  found  me 
first  —  Jim  Barclay.  The  old  fool !  —  old 
redheaded  beast!     Pah!" 

She  paused  for  breath,  and,  while  the  crick- 
ets were  trilling  in  the  damp  grass,  stroked 
his  arm  as  if  in  consolation. 

"Sakes,  how  strong  you  are!"  she  purred. 
"But  you  're  not  like  them.  I  'm  through 
with  their  kind  now,  honest,  for  good. 
They  're  big  babies  along  of  you.  Don't 
you  see  ?  Don't  you  see  ?  —  Oh,  you  quiet 
devil!  The  time  we'll  have!  — I  never 
knew  a  man  like  you  before." 

Still  Marden  could  not  pull  himself  away 
from  what  at  once  quieted  and  angered  him. 

"A  man  like  me?"  he  stupidly  faltered. 
"Why  — what"— 

"That's  you  all  over!"  cried  the  woman 
proudly.     "Why,  how  many  of  'em  do  you 


WILD   JUSTICE  215 

s'pose  there  is  nowadays  would  do  what  you 
done  for  the  sake  of  a  woman?" 

Once  more,  as  in  that  meeting  on  the  beach, 
a  light  began  to  grow  slowly  in  his  mind. 
Just  so  a  man  underground  might  see,  far 
ahead,  the  day  glimmering  in  the  mouth  of 
some  burrow. 

He  drew  himself  free,  without  violence  or 
scorn.  The  blood  running  in  his  veins  was 
his  own  again,  under  control. 

"You  're  right,"  he  replied  slowly,  "right 
in  a  way.  I  begin  to  see  —  By  the  Lord,  it 
was  that !  That 's  a  straw  to  catch  at,  any- 
way.    There  's  a  chance,  after  all." 

His  tone  showed  that  he  had  forgotten  her. 

"What  are  you  after  now?"  she  whipped 
out.  "Don't  go  moonin'  again,  now  we  un- 
derstand each  other." 

She  made  as  if  to  put  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  but  he  drew  back,  regarding  her 
gravely. 

"  It 's  queer," —  his  voice,  too,  was  very 
grave,  and  trembled,  — "  it 's  queer  to  hear  a 
murderer  talk  of  conscience,  and  all  that  — 
but  let  Him  judge,  wherever  He  is.     I  've 


216  BEACHED  KEELS 

meant  to  do  right,  and  — you  see  the  fist 
I  've  made.  But  now  you  've  made  me  see 
somehow,  a  little.  It 's  like,  well  —  it 's  as 
if  a  soldier  (a  stupid  one,  that 's  me)  lost  a 
great  battle  —  for  the  cause  —  the  cause  his 
whole  heart 's  in.  That 's  how  it  is.  And 
the  man's  heart  breaks,  —  but  he  loves  the 
cause  just  the  same,  and  loves  the  Com- 
mander, too,  that  puts  him  to  death  —  you 
see,  he  deserves  it.  Hopeless  wrong,  that 's 
what  I  've  done;  but  something  on  the  right 
side  put  me  up  to  it." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  're  talkin'  about, 
you  queer  thing,"  she  said  curtly.  "But 
you  're  wastin'  time,  anyway.  Hurry  up,  for 
God's  sake!  I  don't  understand  none  o'  that 
stuff,  but  this  is  right  under  our  noses." 

He  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"A  little  while  ago  I  might  have  killed  you 
too.  And  now  —  why,  it 's  almost  a  debt 
you  've  put  me  under.  At  least,  —  go  on  — 
go  away  —  We  're  all  poor  devils  together  — 
and  how  do  I  know  how  the  two  Com- 
manders choose  up  beforehand?  Go  away, 
and  let  me  think  this  out  —  it  ain't  much  I 


WILD   JUSTICE  217 

have  left  me  —  and  I  want  to  think  it  all 
out." 

"What's  the  matter?"  complained  the 
woman.  **  After  you  done  all  this  for  me  — 
What  d'  ye  mean?" 

"For  you?"  he  replied  quietly.  "It 
was  n't  for  you." 

"Not  for  m^?"  She  gave  an  impatient 
and  incredulous  laugh.  "Then  who  in  the 
devil  was  it  for?" 

"A  woman,"  he  slowly  answered, — "you 
never  knew  her,  and  I  hope  you  never  saw 
her.  I  can't  name  her  name  before  —  either 
of  us.  And  yet  I  see  now  she  's  way  above 
any  harm  you  or  him  or  I  might  say  or  do 
against  her." 

With  a  sharp  intake  of  breath  that  was 
almost  a  snarl,  the  woman  advanced  on  him, 
quick  and  hostile. 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  she  cried,  shrill 
with  anger.  "Do  you  understand  what  I 
know  —  what  I  can  do,  you  fool  ?  —  an'  I 
will  do  it,  too.  I  'm  in  a  pretty  fix  now  — 
when  it  was  all  for  some  other  woman.  Oh, 
you  two  liars,  you  an'  him  both  —  an'  let  me 


218  BEACHED  KEELS 

go  an'  make  a  fool  o'  myself  here  —  Oh,  you 
great  —  you,  you  —  oh,  oh,  oh!"  She  could 
jBnd  no  words,  but  ran  in  close,  pelted  him 
viciously  with  her  fists,  then  turned  and  bolted 
toward  the  town. 

Marden  neither  felt  her  blows  nor  heard 
the  sound  of  her  running.  He  only  knew 
that  she  had  vanished.  The  darkness  swal- 
lowed her  up,  and  all  memory  of  her.  He 
was  trying  to  feel  his  way  out  of  this  labyrinth 
before  the  tenuous  clue  should  be  withdrawn, 
or  spin  itself  down  to  nothing  in  the  dark. 

"  It  was  n't  for  such  reasons  as  —  as  it 
might  have  been,"  he  pondered.  "If  they  '11 
only  give  me  time,  I  '11  follow  this  through 
yet,  and  get  unsnarled,  perhaps." 

A  soft  breeze  was  drawing  cool  out  of  the 
west.  The  leaves  of  the  poplar  behind  the 
house  began  to  whisper  shiveringly.  High 
in  the  air,  a  firefly  was  blown  down  the  wind, 
so  that  at  the  first  glance  he  mistook  it  for  a 
falling  star.  And  in  the  sudden  coolness 
Marden  found  himself  thinking  clearly  and 
sweetly  of  his  mother,  whom  he  saw  again, 
as  in  the  blue  December  dawn,  with  the  fire- 


WILD   JUSTICE  219 

light  shining  upward  on  the  gentle  face  and 
the  sad  gray  eyes.  It  was  all  very  distant, 
and  belonged  not  to  him;  but  at  all  events 
the  vision  was  there. 

"  She  'd  understand  even  this,"  he  thought. 
"Whether  she  ever  forgave  it  or  not,  she 
knows  what 's  been  fighting  in  my  veins. 
That 's  as  much  as  a  man  deserves." 

Through  the  trilling  of  the  crickets  and  the 
soft  patter  of  the  leaves  came  the  sound  of  a 
frog  chunking  away  among  the  rushes  of  the 
little  marsh  behind  the  knoll,  croaking  his 
song,  older  than  Aristophanes.  Marden  did 
not  hear  it,  but  he  saw  the  ancient  star  hung 
in  the  east,  and  under  the  Great  Bear  the 
ghostly  play  of  the  Northern  Lights,  shifting 
in  long  faint  streamers  across  the  sky,  showing 
a  handiwork  beyond  all  understanding. 

He  stood  lost  in  wonder,  filled  with  a  grief 
as  old  as  sea  and  land.  Then  he  slowly  faced 
about. 

A  light  was  coming  from  the  village. 

"The  house,"  he  said  aloud,  "it  doesn't 
matter  now  what  happens  to  that,  either." 

The  light  came  bobbing  across  the  field. 


220  BEACHED  KEELS 

It  was  a  lantern,  carried  in  the  midst  of  a 
little  group  of  people,  who  approached  si- 
lently. He  could  see  their  legs  moving  dim 
in  the  path,  and  the  long,  black,  magnified 
shadows  crossing  and  recrossing,  shearing  the 
broad  hillside. 

Marden  walked  slowly  down  to  meet  them. 


Ill 

CAPTAIN  CHRISTY 


CAPTAIN'  CHRISTY 

I 
The  harbor,  brimful  with  the  tide,  was  blue 
as  morning  sky,  and  motionless  as  high 
summer  clouds.  Along  the  grass-grown 
wharves,  —  silver-gray  piles  which  crumbled 
at  the  ends  into  a  jackstraw  heap  of  rotting 
logs,  —  there  was  no  human  stir.  Over  one 
gray  shanty  the  red  ensign,  a  fold  showing 
the  yellow  crown  of  Her  Majesty's  customs, 
hung  limp  from  the  staff.  The  thirty-foot 
flood  had  moved  in  imperceptibly,  and  lay, 
from  the  wharves  to  the  distant  islands,  like  a 
floor  of  steel.  The  masts  of  pinkies  at  their 
moorings  plunged  in  deep,  straight  lines  of 
black  reflection,  save  where  some  profound, 
mysterious  tremor  of  the  tide  shivered  the 
mirror,  and  sent  the  phantom  spars  in  wrig- 
gling fragments  to  the  depths.  A  lone  sand- 
piper, skimming  the  surface,  mated  with  a 
flying  shadow;  and  two  or  three,  wheeling 
together,    doubled   into   a   little   flock   that 


224  BEACHED  KEELS 

swerved,  divided,  and  rejoined.  The  long 
water-front  of  gray  houses,  and  behind  them 
the  treeless,  empty  street  of  pink  sand,  lay 
asleep  in  peaceful  desolation. 

The  hum  of  voices,  however,  came  from  on 
board  a  small  two-masted  schooner  made  fast 
to  a  mouldering  wharf.  And  on  the  sunny 
side  of  the  mainsail,  that  was  half  hoisted  to 
dry  in  the  morning  air,  sat  a  little  group  of 
men  in  varied  postures  of  idleness.  A  tawny- 
haired  youth  in  a  Scotch  cap  straddled  the 
rail,  spitting  overside,  kicking  the  woodwork 
sonorously,  and  fingering  off  the  flakes  of  blis- 
tered paint.  The  others,  all  old  men,  basked 
on  the  cabin  roof,  sat  on  the  bleached  and 
ancient  boom,  perched  on  a  coil  of  frayed  haw- 
ser, or  tilted  back  on  chairs  and  boxes.  All, 
except  one,  were  men  of  a  bygone  generation, 
whose  faces,  placid  and  weather-seamed,  and 
whose  beards,  of  every  cut,  from  the  white, 
wide-forked  whisker  to  the  fiery  chin-strap  of 
Ireland,  marked  them  for  men  who  kept  the 
ways  of  the  old  country.  The  one  exception 
sat  in  a  kitchen  chair  by  the  wheel,  —  a  long- 
limbed  old  man,  of  quick  eye  and  humorous 


CAPTAIN   CHRISTY  225 

wrinkles,  by  every  feature  a  Yankee  among 
Canadians.  His  big,  brown,  cramped  hands, 
tattooed  with  a  blue  five-spot  at  the  fork  of 
either  thumb,  whittled  busily  at  a  peg. 

"Harbor-master  sayed  so,  too,"  the  old 
man  with  the  forked  beard  was  declaring, 
from  his  perch  on  the  mainboom.  "Sayed, 
ain't  no  vessel  o'  tonnage  worth  countun' 
ever  clearrs  out  o'  this  porrt  nowadays,  or 
enterrs.  An'  it  lies  right  in  my  own  memory 
when  they  used  to  come  in,  brigs  an'  ships  an' 
all,  crowdud:  carrgoes  an'  settlerrs!"  The 
speaker  waved  his  hand  slowly,  as  in  admira- 
tion of  a  broad  picture.  "  An'  the  Loodianah 
would  be  sailun'  from  Liverrpool,  bang  up 
again  this  w'arf  as  ever  was,  a-landin' 
swarrms;  an'  Danny  Eustis  had  a  barr  an' 
lodgun's  right  on  ut,  there  where  the  timberr  's 
sunk  in.  Times  has  changed."  He  sighed, 
and  letting  his  head  sink,  spread  out  the  white 
flanges  of  his  beard  across  his  chest. 

The  youth  who  straddled  the  rail  turned 
his  freckled  face  toward  the  company,  grin- 
ning malignly,  as  one  adept  in  putting  his 
finger  on  the  main  trouble. 


226  BEACHED  KEELS 

"This  schooner's  the  only  thing  bigger 'n  a 
pinky  that 's  seaworthy  in  the  who!'  bloomin' 
harbor,"  he  sneered.  "An'  she  ain't  left  her 
pier  f er  —  how  long  is  it,  Gap'n  Christy  ?  — 
fer"  — 

The  old  Yankee  at  the  wheel  caught  him  up. 

"Look  here.  Master  Kibben,"  he  said 
mildly,  "  I  'd  ruther  you  'd  let  that  paint 
alon'  there  on  that  rail.  Wear  an'  tear  '11 
take  it  ofiF  in  time,  'thout  you  pickin'  at  it." 
The  captain  turned  again  to  his  contempo- 
raries, sweeping  their  semicircle  with  candid 
blue  eyes.  "I  hate  to  see  folks  frettin'  an' 
piddlin'  with  their  fingers,"  he  explained. 
"If  a  man  ain't  anything  to  make,  let  him 
set  still  an'  not  distroy." 

The  youth,  abashed,  was  left  to  drop  pebbles 
overside  and  watch  the  circles  that  widened 
on  the  water  and  set  the  sunlight  fluttering 
in  oozy,  volatile  spots  of  brightness  under  the 
vessel's  quarter.  But  his  question  had  started 
other  circles  widening  in  the  conversation. 

"Why  do  n't  you  let  her  out  to  some  one  ?" 
asked  an  old  man  who  sat,  with  upright 
dignity,  on  the  coil  of  hawsers.     Of  stiffer 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  227 

carriage  than  the  others,  and  dressed  in  worn 
tweeds,  with  a  stock  collar,  a  rusty  black 
string  tie,  and  across  his  stomach  a  small 
cable  of  blond  hair  braided  into  a  watch- 
guard,  he  had  an  air  of  faded  and  uncouth 
smartness.  His  formal  face,  red  nose,  and 
smug  white  mutton-chop  whiskers,  wore  the 
slow  importance  of  the  old  school. 

"Why  don't  you  let  her  out  ?"  he  repeated. 
**  Provided  you  're  not  going  to  sea  yourself, 
Captain  Christy,  if  you  understand  me." 

The  captain  understood.  He  bent  over  his 
whittling  till  only  his  white  beard  showed 
below  the  brim  of  the  rustic  straw  hat.  Now 
he  looked  up,  quick  and  shrewd.  The  boy 
in  the  Scotch  cap  was  grinning  once  more. 
Deliberately  the  captain  pulled  his  tall  body 
from  the  chair,  walked  to  the  cabin  door, 
fitted  the  hasp  on  the  staple,  thrust  in  the 
half-finished  peg,  eyed  it  with  displeasure, 
and  tugged  it  out.  Then  he  turned  to  the 
company.  Under  shaggy  white  eyebrows,  a 
curious  fold  of  wrinkles  in  the  upper  lids  gave 
his  eyes  a  triangular  appearance.  They  were 
very  blue,  and  sharp,  and  whimsical. 


228  BEACHED   KEELS 

*'Mr.  Beatty,"  he  said  to  his  questioner, 
"ye  ain't  cal'latin'  to  let  any  rooms  to  boarders 
an'  mealers  up  to  your  house,  are  ye  ?  " 

A  slow  shock  ran  through  the  group.  This 
question  to  the  chief  gentleman,  of  the  chief 
residence,  in  the  seaport!  Mr.  Beatty,  out- 
raged, sat  glaring  and  pursing  his  mouth 
rapidly  in  a  bewildered  eflFort  to  frame  the 
reply  tremendous. 

"  No  ?  "  the  captain  resumed  kindly.  **  No. 
Now  I  thought  ye  would  n't,  somehow. 
Well,  ye  see,  same  way  I  would  n't  let  no  one 
else  take  this  schooner  a  v'yage.  She 's  mine, 
has  be'n  so  thirty-seven  year;  an'  Zing  Turner 
an'  me  has  sailed  her  everywheres  coastwise, 
an'  for  a  bo't  o'  her  tonnage,  consid'able  deep- 
water."  The  captain's  glance  wandered  off, 
across  the  sunlit  floor  of  the  harbor,  past  the 
dark  fir-crowned  islets,  toward  the  dazzling 
path  that  led  to  open  sea.  "No,  sir,"  he 
concluded  calmly,  **  if  I  can't  take  her  out,  no 
one  else  ain't  goin'  to."  He  sat  down  again 
by  the  wheel,  and  cut  critical  shavings  from 
the  peg;  and  when  Mr.  Beatty  would  have 
pursued  the  subject  further,  he  stopped  it 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  229 

coldly.  "  If  she  went  to  sea,  we  all  would  n't 
be  sittin'  here  enjoyin'  life,  for  one  thing." 

Feet  scuffed  along  the  deck,  and  a  new- 
comer, skirting  the  cabin,  halted  in  the  open 
space.  He  was  a  brown  little  man,  of  sun- 
dried  aspect;  under  a  drooping  black  rat-tail 
mustache  his  teeth  gleamed  in  a  row  of 
golden  "  crowns ; "  and  the  dismal,  hollow  con- 
tour of  his  face  seemed  to  denote  a  weary  cyni- 
cism, until  one  saw  the  dull  good-humor  of  his 
eyes.  Sunken  and  opaque,  they  contained 
a  smoky  gleam,  like  bits  of  isinglass. 

*'Mornin',  cap'n,"  he  saluted,  with  an 
auriferous  grin.  "Say,  the'  ain't  no  weeck 
in  the  big  lantrun.  Kin  I  git  one  ashore, 
s'pose.^"  He  spoke  as  if  this  schooner,  idle 
for  years,  had  just  tied  up  at  some  bewilder- 
ing foreign  quay. 

"Well,  Zing,"  responded  his  captain, 
"you  'd  ought  to  know  by  this  time.  But  I 
guess  you  can  git  a  weeck; — what  between 
Tommy  Carroll's  rum-shop  an'  the  town 
lockup,  I  guess  you  might  git  a  fortni't." 

A  heavy  chuckle  moved  round  the  com- 
pany, ending  in  a  belated  explosion  of  laughter 


230  BEACHED  KEELS 

from  Bunty  Gildersleeve  of  the  forked  beard. 
The  mate  was  puzzled,  then  aggrieved. 

"I  don't  touch  a  drop,  cap'n,"  he  appealed; 
"you  know  I  don't,  well  enough." 

"Course  ye  don't.  Zing,"  the  captain 
soothed  him.     "That  was  a  joke." 

The  other  returned  serenely  to  his  pro- 
posal :  — 

"Well,  then  I  '11  git  one  fer  the  lantrun?" 

"Do  so.  Zing."  The  captain,  solemnly 
ratifying  it,  returned  to  his  peg. 

The  lean  little  man  hopped  from  rail  to 
wharf,   and  shuflBed  ofiP  toward  the  street. 

After  him  Mr.  Beatty  stared  with  dis- 
approval. "There  goes  the  biggest  fool  in 
town,"  he  dogmatized. 

"Oh,  no,  he  ain't,"  objected  Captain 
Christy.  "Beggin'  your  pardon,  he  ain't. 
The'  's  lots  bigger  fools,  an'  worse  men,  than 
Zwinglius  Turner.  He  ain't  quick,  but  he 
sticks  by  ye.  He  's  ben  with  me  ever  sence  he 
was  a  orphan  boy.  An'  while  he  ain't  no 
navigator,  he  's  able,  for  things  aboard  ship, 
ropes  an'  taykle  an'  gear,  right  under  his 
nose.      O'    course"  —  the    captain    smiled 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  231 

indulgence.  "Well,  Zing  Turner  has  ben 
sailin'  round  here  an'  —  elsewhere," —  the 
captain  waved  generously  towards  the  world, 
—  "  sailin'  round  for  over  twenty  year,  an' 
he  don't  know  a  landmark  yet  'cept  Hood's 
Folly  Light,  and  that 's  because  his  uncle 
kep'  it  all  his  life.  I  says  to  him  one  mornin' 
'fore  daylight,  'Where's  she  layin',  Zing.?' 
an'  says  he,  'I-god,  I  dunno,  cap'n,  guess 
we  're  off  the  Oak  Bay  River.'  We  was  just 
passing    L'Etang ! " 

His  listeners  laughed,  slowly,  incredulously. 

"He  don't  so  much  as  know  their  names 
yet,"  Captain  Christy  went  on.  "But  for 
all  that"  — 

The  hollow  bumping  of  an  oar,  and  a  hail 
from  alongside,  stopped  the  defense  of  Zwing- 
lius. 

"On  deck,  RapscuU'on!"  croaked  a  hoarse 
voice.  "Finnan  haddies,  all  ready  for  the 
butter!  Lobsters,  praise  the  Lord,  that  '11 
put  hair  on  yer  chest  and  joy  in  yer  soul! 
Cap'n-Christy-God  -  bless-ye-brother-how-de- 
do  ?  —  Fresh  clams,  baked  yisterday  and  dug 
to-morrer !  —  Ahoy ! " 


232  BEACHED  KEELS 

"Fisherman  Gale  's  in,"  said  the  captain. 

The  hoarse  roar,  which  shattered  the 
silence  of  the  harbor,  and  reverberated  along 
the  water-front  of  gray  shanties,  came  from 
a  grizzled  fisherman  sculling  a  boat  shore- 
ward. Bending  to  his  sweep,  straddling  a 
thwart  smeared  with  blood  and  scales,  a 
filthy  giant  in  the  bright  sun,  he  stared  up  at 
the  schooner's  company,  with  black  eyes 
shining  fiery  from  an  obscene  tangle  of  gray 
elf-locks. 

"The  Good  Lord  bless  ye,"  he  croaked 
with  a  voice  of  despair.  "May  He  keep  ye 
all,  bretherin.    Haddick  ?  " 

The  boat,  rocking  past,  left  a  wake  of 
ripples  and  a  smell  of  fish  stealing  over  the 
pale,  hot  surface  of  the  harbor;  the  fisherman, 
bellowing  to  the  empty  street  ahead,  shot  his 
offal-smeared  craft  under  the  Rapscallion's 
bowsprit,  and  made  fast  beside  a  rickety 
stair  that  mounted  from  the  water  into  a 
patch  of  dusty  burdocks.  The  men  on  the 
schooner  left  their  host,  the  captain,  and 
dispersed  slowly,  each  one  rising,  stretching, 
clambering  to  the  foot  of  the  shrouds  for  a 


CAPTAIN   CHRISTY  233 

clumsy  leap  to  the  broken  string-piece  of  the 
pier.  Lazy  and  old,  they  straggled  away  to 
group  themselves  again  in  the  burdock  patch; 
unmoved  by  the  fisherman's  harangue,  they 
deliberated  over  their  fish  for  dinner;  and 
presently,  in  a  slow  and  scattered  file  of  ones 
and  twos,  through  the  wide,  glaring  street  of 
pink  sand,  moved  homeward,  each  swinging 
by  a  bit  of  rope-yarn  a  scarlet  lobster  or  a 
pale,  limp  haddock. 

All  but  Captain  Christy:  he  remained  lean- 
ing with  elbows  on  the  schooner's  rail,  staring 
hard  into  the  green  depths,  where  sunfish 
wavered  past,  vague  disks  of  bending  pulp. 
Once  he  shook  his  head  as  if  something  would 
never  do ;  once  he  cast  a  slow  survey  over  his 
vessel,  from  stern  davits  to  round,  apple  bow, 
from  the  gray  old  planks  underfoot  up  to  the 
drooping  dog-vane;  but  for  a  long  time  he 
leaned  motionless,  looking  down  at  a  black 
tress  of  seaweed  in  the  water.  At  last,  with 
something  like  a  sigh,  he  turned  away,  and 
walked  over  to  the  cabin  door. 

He  was  staring  at  the  finished  peg  in  the 
staple,  when  Zwinglius  Turner  swung  himself 


234  BEACHED  KEELS 

aboard,  flapping  a  white  strip  of  lantern- 
wick,  and  grinning. 

"Zing,"  the  captain  began  with  a  stern 
face ;  then  stopped,  and  winked  as  if  a  weighty 
joke  were  to  follow.  "Zing,  that's  a  fine 
mornin's  work  for  a  grown  man." 

The  mate  broadened  his  shining  grin,  much 
as  a  sleepy  dog  hastens  the  wagging  of  his 
tail  at  a  word  from  the  one  beloved  master. 
Then,  after  labor:  — 

"  Better  'n  nothin',  cap'n,"  he  retorted 
cheerfully. 

"Yes,  that's  it,"  said  Captain  Christy; 
"better  'n  nothin'.  Well,  let 's  lower  away, 
Mr.   Turner." 

Together  they  lowered  the  dark  mainsail, 
and  made  all  snug.  Deft,  serious,  a  trans- 
figured helper,  Zwinglius  was  everywhere  at 
once,  working  with  swift  economy  of  motion. 
When  he  had  carried  the  boxes  and  chair  into 
the  cabin,  shut  the  door,  and  hammered  the 
peg  home  with  his  fist,  he  turned  to  find  his 
captain  waiting  at  the  side.  The  old  man  ran 
his  big,  brown  hand,  in  one  passionate  ges- 
ture, down  over  his  bearded  cheeks.    Under 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  235 

the  jutting  penthouse  fringe  of  white  brows, 
his  eyes  were  Hke  dark  pools  with  fire  in 
them,  —  brightness  playing  over  depth. 

"Look  here,  you  Zing  Turner,"  he  de- 
manded harshly.  "  What  d  'ye  mean  by 
stayin'  round  here,  marooned-like  in  this  sort 
o'  town,  doin'  nothin' ?  For  four  year  you 
ain't  done  a  tap,  'cept  this  kind  o'  foolin' — 
playin'  at  ship  —  for  four  year.  What  d  'ye 
mean.?" 

The  poor  mate  was  stunned.  He  shifted 
his  feet,  looked  up,  down,  and  sidewise, 
fear  slowly  erasing  his  smile. 

"Why,  cap'n,"  he  stammered.  "Why, 
cap'n" —  This  sudden  examination  of  a 
latent  leading  motive  seemed  to  torture  him. 
"Why  —  I  dunno  —  why,  I  was  jes'  waitin' 
round  till  we  went  another  voyage,  cap'n  — 
jes'    kind    o'"— 

"That 's  it !  "  cried  the  old  man.  "There 
ye  are,  again,  waitin'  round  an'  waitin' 
round.  'T  ain't  no  use,  an'  you  know  it.  This 
schooner  '11  never  put  out  no  more,  nor  me 
neither.  What 's  the  use  o'  pretendin'  to  wait  ? 
You  know  how  She  feels  about  it." 


236  BEACHED  KEELS 

The  tirade  stopped  short,  the  fierce  look 
vanished.  "Ye  see,  Zing,"  he  continued,  with 
gentle  gravity,  "  we  could  n't  go,  very  well. 
She  would  n't  want  to  be  left,  sick  an'  all. 
Women  hev  some  queer  idees,  an'  hev  to  be 
humored.  Ain't  like  ships.  You  'ain't  no 
wife.  Zing,  now,  hev  ye  ?  —  An'  I  've  kind  o' 
promised.  —  It 's  stay  here,  I  guess." 

As  they  left  the  wharf,  a  bell,  somewhere  in 
the  town,  broke  into  loud  clamor.  At  the 
sound,  a  rusty  Newfoundland  dog,  sole  figure 
in  the  street,  roused  himself  from  a  sunbath  on 
the  pink  sand,  howled  funereally,  and  slunk 
off  among  the  gray  buildings. 

"Noon  —  most  dinner  time,"  said  Cap- 
tain Christy.  "Good-by,  Zing.  Same  time 
to-morrer  mornin' }  " 

"Yessir,"  said  Zwinglius  cheerfully.  The 
sore  subject  would  not  be  touched  on  for  an- 
other fortnight.  Where  land  and  wharf  met 
the  two  men  parted. 

"  Pollick,  cap'n  ?  "  roared  Fisherman  Gale, 
from  his  deserted  market  among  the  broken 
fish-flakes.  He  mopped  his  forehead  with  a 
red  bandanna,  then  whisked  away  the  flies. 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  237 

"  Pollick  ?  Mackereel  ?  —  Glory  amen!  Shell 
clams  an'  finnan  haddie!  God  bless  ye,  bro- 
ther Christy!  For  His  mercy  indooreth  for- 
ever!" he  chanted  in  a  hoarse  rapture,  to  the 
silent  village.  "Satisfieth  my  mouth  with 
good  things,  so  that  my  youth  is  renooed  like 
—  like  the  American  eagle,  hey,  cap'n  ?  —  I 
al'ays  loved  the  dear  old  stars  'n'  strikes. 
What  '11  ye  take  home  this  noon  ?  An'  how  's 
yer  wife,  that  blessed  sister  ?  —  lookin'  young 
an'  handsome  as  a  wax  doll,  but  a  dear  true 
follerer." 

The  captain  approached,  dredging  from  a 
pocket  his  meagre  handful  of  coins.  He  eyed 
the  dirty  fanatic  with  a  mild  pity. 

"  What 's  a  haddie  to-day,  Cap'n  Gale  .^"  he 
said.  "The  Black  Hawk  minds  her  helium 
jest  as  clever,  I  s'pose.?"  And,  by  the  habit 
of  patience,  he  listened  through  the  fisher- 
man's wild  outpouring,  —  each  symptom  of 
his  crazy  schooner,  and  body,  and  soul. 

.  .  .  "Doubts  an'  backslidin's,  an'  turri- 
ble  cracklin's  in  the  drums  o'  my  head, 
like  fish  a-fryin'.  But  I  persevere  a-sailin' 
alone,  an'  keep  her  on  the  lubber  p'int  for 


238  BEACHED  KEELS 

heaven!"  Gale  concluded,  and  mopped  his 
dirty  beard. 

Captain  Christy  nodded.  Thrusting  a  big 
forefinger  through  the  rope-yarn  ring  at  the 
apex  of  the  finnan  haddie,  and  swinging  his 
purchase  meditatively,  he  moved  away. 

"Hold  her  to  it,  cap'n,"  he  assented 
gravely.    "That 's  the  course  for  all  of  us." 

In  a  grass-grown  lane  among  the  side- streets 
he  clicked  a  wooden  gate  behind  him,  trav- 
ersed a  gravel  path  between  two  rows  of  conch 
shells,  and  stood  upon  his  own  doorsteps. 
At  the  sound  of  his  tread  a  woman's  voice 
called  fretfully  from  within  the  house :  — 

"  So  you  're  back  at  last,  after  your  gadding 
and  gossiping.^  Time,  I  should  say!  Hope 
you  've  enjoyed  yourself,  because  I  've  got  a 
piece  of  news  for  you." 

The  captain  shook  his  gray  head  wearily. 
On  the  iron  bootscraper  he  cleaned  his  soles 
of  imaginary  dirt,  and  then  entered  the  "front 
hall,"  stepping  lightly  on  the  checkered  oil- 
cloth. 

In  the  sitting-room,  from  her  pillowed  chair 
beside  a  window-sill  lined  with  vials,  his  wife 


CAPTAIN   CHRISTY  239 

turned  on  him  her  heavy,  sallow  face  and 
malevolent  eyes.  To  her  hooked  nose  she 
held  a  camphor  bottle,  which  she  fitfully  low- 
ered and  clapped  into  position  again. 

"  I  've  made  up  my  mind,"  she  declared, 
between  whiffs.  " Now  hark!  You  've  wasted 
enough  time  among  those  good-for-nothings. 
You  must  sell  that  old  hulk  of  a  schooner." 


II 

"Well,  just  keep  on  as  you  do,  then," 
shrilled  his  wife,  at  the  close  of  a  week's 
debate.  By  main  force  of  nagging  she  had 
beaten  down  the  captain's  good-humored  de- 
fense and  reduced  him  to  a  state  of  unnat- 
ural brooding.  "Keep  on."  She  raised  pious 
glances  to  the  ceiling:  "You  '11  only  bring  my 
white  hairs  to  the  grave." 

They  were  really  of  a  yellowish  gray, 
screwed  tightly  up  in  unreverend  knobs  and 
horns ;  nor  did  their  descent  to  the  tomb  ap- 
pear more  imminent  than  ever  before  in 
thirty  years  of  hypochondria;  but  they  served 
her  rhetoric. 


240  BEACHED  KEELS 

The  captain,  studying  the  fluffy  plumes  of 
dried  pampas  grass  over  the  mantel,  was 
moved  to  take  a  rare  measure,  and  to  his 
mind  an  ignoble. 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  —  anything 
I've  done,  Carrie,"  was  his  apology:  "but 
after  stayin'  home  from  sea  so  many  year  to 
please  you,  it  ain't  likely  I  '11  go  leave  you 
now.  I  ain't  a  boy,"  he  suggested,  with  an- 
other vain  appeal  to  humor,  "I  ain't  a  boy 
that  can  run  away  to  sea  no  longer." 

"  Hark ! "  cried  the  invalid  sharply.  "  Now 
who  's  saying  you  were  ?  What  /  complain 
of,  and  any  woman  would  complain  of,  is 
for  you  to  spend  all  your  time  aboard  her, 
idling  and  gossiping,  and  leave  your  wife 
here  alone  at  home." 

This  was  Position  Number  Two.  If  he 
should  reply  that  every  morning,  after  an  hour 
of  frustrate  conversation,  she  told  him  to  clear 
out  and  let  her  rest  a  while,  then  the  discussion 
would  shift  to  Number  Three:  "A  woman 
can't  always  sit  and  hear  the  same  person  say- 
ing the  same  things."  This  would  lead  easily 
to  Position  Four:  "Neighbors  ?    A  fine  lot  of 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  241 

neighbors! —  Why  did  I  ever  come  to  Hve  in 
this  place,  among  such  a  set  of  people  ?  "  And 
that  would  be  the  last  move;  for  Captain 
Christy,  knowing  the  neighborhood  opinion  on 
this  very  point,  had  never  found  the  heart  to 
answer.  Thus  the  game  would  end  in  a  kind 
of  stale-mate. 

"  It  ain't  worth  arguin',"  he  sighed. 

"  Of  course  not,"  snapped  his  wife.  "  It 's 
only  a  question  of  my  peace  and  health,  or 
your  idle  pleasure." 

And  therefore,  through  another  week  of 
dreary  weather,  among  her  vials,  and  be- 
side window-panes  laced  with  raindrops  or 
blanketed  with  white  fog,  she  sat  and  argued 
sourly. 

To  know  the  forgotten,  obliterated  motives 
which,  in  that  other  world  of  the  past,  had 
joined  these  two  in  mutual  captivity,  would 
be  to  read  tablets  long  expunged,  to  trace 
beach-wandering  footprints  after  many  tides, 
to  restore  the  drifted  volutes  in  last  winter's 
snow.  "  How  did  he  marry  her  ?  "  was  an  old 
question  of  indignant,  amused,  or  speculative 
neighbors;  with  no  more  answer  than  neigh- 


242  BEACHED  KEELS 

bors  have  ever  found  to  that  mystery  which 

—  saevo  cum  joco  —  has  for  ages  paired  and 
shackled  the  unmatched  of  body  and  of  spirit. 
Mrs.  Christy  herself  wondered  about  it 
openly,  redundantly,  and  with  self-reproach; 
but  her  husband  either  saw  no  disparity,  or 
was  loyal  to  some  youthful  belief,  some  illu- 
sion of  Rachel  in  the  days  before  he  woke  to 
find  that  it  was  Leah. 

Only  once  had  he  allowed  himself  a  retort. 
As  an  exalted  "U.  E.  Loyalist,"  the  invalid 
passed  all  her  reading  hours  among  courts  and 
coronets.  Declaiming  a  paragraph  about  the 
Marquis  of  Lome,  she  drew  from  the  captain 
a  cheerful  admission :  — 

"Never  heard  of  him." 

"Never  heard  — !"  she  sniffed  contemptu- 
ously. "  Next  you  '11  say  you  've  never  heard 
of  the  Queen!" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  captain,  "yes,  I  have. 
By  all  accounts,  she  must  be  a  real  nice  old 
lady." 

"You!  —  you!"  cried  the  reader,  choking. 
"You  dare  to  speak  of  Her  Majesty  so!    You 

—  oh !    You  miserable  —  Yankee ! "    A  wild 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  MS 

torrent  of  words  followed:  an  angry  lecture 
on  irreverence,  a  more  angry  history  of  "my 
Family,  the  Defews,"  and  how  they  had  left 
"your  vulgar  Yankee  colonies,  to  be  loyal  to 
the  Crown." — "Oh,  why  did  they  let  me 
marry  such  people  ?  " 

"People?"  smiled  the  captain.  "That's 
bigamy,  my  dear." 

"  Oh,"  she  moaned,  "  if  I  'd  only  known 
what  I  was  about!" 

"Well,"  he  replied  slowly,  "7  had  no  idee 
I  was  marryin'  the  whol'  Royal  Family." 

As  days  passed,  the  argument  over  the 
schooner  grew  acute  and  dangerous.  Per- 
versity, it  may  have  been;  or  a  cruel  whim  of 
the  spleen ;  or,  perhaps,  that  veiled  force  which 
moves  below  so  much  of  human  action, — 
jealousy.  The  captain  was  seen  no  more 
about  the  wharves;  now  and  then,  in  brief 
appearance  on  the  streets,  he  trudged  heavily, 
like  a  workingman  at  the  end  of  day,  and 
studied  the  pink  sand  before  his  path,  with  a 
gaze  deep,  introverted,  unseeing.  There  at 
his  feet  lay  in  question  the  last  surviving  joy 
of  his  life. 


244  BEACHED  KEELS 

Once  he  stopped  his  former  mate  before 
the  post  oflSce. 

"Zing,"  he  said  pointblank, "  what  d'  ye  say 
if  we  'd  sell  the  vessel  ?  " 

Zwinglius  looked  at  him  shyly,  embarrassed, 
silent,  as  at  some  high  priest  who  might 
propound  a  sacrilegious  riddle. 

"Why,"  he  faltered,  "I  dunno  —  What 
fer,  cap'n?" 

"May  come  to  that,"  rejoined  Captain 
Christy,  and  passed  on,  cloaked  in  sorrowful 
enigma. 

The  increasing  storm  in  his  house,  and 
distress  in  his  mind,  made  him  spend  a  serene 
morning  of  Indian  summer  in  painting  his 
front  steps.  The  house,  shipshape  with 
white  clapboards  and  green  shutters,  stood 
out  so  trig  and  Yankee-fashion  among  the 
dove-gray  houses  of  the  town,  that  it  might 
have  looked  too  virtuous,  too  spruce,  had  not 
a  vine  traced  runic  patterns  over  the  windows, 
and  the  sunlight,  through  a  stalwart  yellow 
birch,  poured  flickering  changes  along  the 
whole  front,  like  the  play  of  kindly  expression 
on  a  plain  face.     Nor  did  the  steps,  that 


CAPTAIN   CHRISTY  245 

mounted  from  between  the  files  of  pearl- 
mouthed  conch  shells,  need  even  a  touch  of 
restoration.  But  the  captain  worked  slowly, 
painting  them  a  vivid  azure. 

Tapping  two  brushes  against  an  axe-helve, 
he  had  begun  to  spatter  thick  dots  of  black 
and  white,  when  a  voice  calling  made  his  tall 
frame  straighten  and  turn  toward  the  gate. 
"Good-morning,  Captain  Christy!" 

Against  the  pickets  leaned  the  slim  body  of 
a  girl,  and  over  them,  like  a  hardy,  trim-poised 
flower,  her  bare  head,  —  a  sun-browned  face, 
gentle  and  serious,  but  lighted  with  merry 
eyes,  and  breezily  crowned  with  willful  brown 
hair. 

"Mornin',  Joyce,"  replied  the  captain, 
fixing  on  her  a  whimsical  look,  at  once 
benevolent  and  stern. 

"What  are  you  doing  that  for.?"  she  asked 
reproachfully,  and  pointed  at  the  brushes 
and  the  bedaubed  axe-helve.  In  guilty 
silence  the  captain  laid  them  athwart  his 
paint-bucket,  and  approached  the  gate. 

"Oh,  nothin',"  he  answered,  looking  pater- 
nally down  at  her  face  of  mischief,  and  then 


me  BEACHED   KEELS 

up  airily  at  the  heavens.    "  Sort  of  a  kill-time. 
Lovely  mornin',  ain't  it.'^" 

"You  bad  old  man,"  laughed  the  girl, 
threatening  with  a  graceful  finger.  *"I  have 
heard  of  your  paintings,  too.'  Every  time 
you  paint.  Father  Captain,  there  's  something 
up,  is  n't  there  ?  —  What  are  you  fretting 
about  now.?" 

"Oh,  nothin',"  repeated  the  mariner,  like  a 
schoolboy.  With  great  artfulness  he  inquired, 
"  What 's  that  book  under  your  arm,  Joyce  ? 
More  fiddlesticks,  I  s'pose.?" 

His  big,  tattooed  thumbs  split  open  the 
stubborn  pages. 

"  Humph !  Verses,"  he  commented.  "  Tell 
by  the  way  they  're  printed,  —  loose  ends  all 
to  sta'board.    What 's  this  ?  " 

"It's  about  a  great  sailor,"  said  Joyce. 

He  read  aloud :  — 

"  *  I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met ; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 
Gleams  that  untravell'd  worid  whose  margin  fades 
For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move.* 

"Why,  that's  true!''  cried  the  old  man. 
This,  his  tone  implied,  was  the  last  thing  to 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  U7 

have  been  expected.  As  he  turned  back  and 
read  the  noble  lines  from  the  first,  his  eyes 
glistened,  and  above  the  white  beard  his 
cheeks  slowly  flushed. 

"One  o'  the  best  things  I  ever  read!"  he 
declared  recklessly.  "Don't  care  if  't  is  a 
poem!" 

At  the  close  he  sighed. 

"Why,  anybody  might  think  jest  like 
that,  —  a  little  fancy,  p'raps,  but  —  jest  like 
that." 

His  brown  fingers,  bent  over  many  a  rope, 
cramped  at  many  a  helm,  closed  the  book 
gently. 

"Read  as  much  o'  him  as  you  like,  my 
girl." 

Joyce  laughed,  but  her  brown  eyes,  watch- 
ing the  heavy-hewn  old  face  above  her,  shone 
as  with  young  love  and  worship  of  a  sage. 
These  chats  with  the  captain  were  somehow 
like  glimpses  of  communion  with  the  father 
and  mother  whom  she  had  been  too  little  to 
know :  in  her  vision  he  remained,  through  the 
faith-shaken  trials  of  her  youth,  "like  a  great 
sea-mark  standing  every  flaw." 


us  BEACHED  KEELS 

"Father  Captain,"  she  said,  after  a  silence, 
"what  were  you  painting  again  for?" 

"Oh,  well,"  he  answered,  with  an  uneasy 
shift,  "ye  see.  She  's  kind  o'  poorly.  Took  to 
her  bed  again." 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  replied  the  girl.  Her 
manner  became  constrained  and  timid.  "Is 
—  is  there  anything  I  can  do  ?  I  'd  come  in 
and  see  her  if  —  if  there  was." 

Both  understood  the  futility  of  that  olBfer. 

"No,  thank  ye,  Joyce,"  said  the  captain. 
"  Don't  know  the'  is.  Thank  ye.  How  's  the 
organ  play  now,  sence  I  mended  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  it 's  beautiful,"  she  cried,  with  evi- 
dent relief.  "You  made  it  almost  like  new. 
There's  only  one  bad  wheeze  now.  You 
stopped  the  worst  rumble." 

"That 's  good,"  he  said.  "I  '11  come  hear 
ye  play  nex'  Sunday,  —  if  She  's  all  right  by 
then." 

He  watched  the  girl  as  with  light-footed 
swing  she  passed  down  the  grass-grown 
street.  "Clears  the  ground  like  —  like  a 
filly,"  he  grumbled,  his  eyes  twinkling  affec- 
tion. 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  249 

"It  makes  me  want  to  cry!"  Joyce  told 
herself,  while  she  hurried  along,  her  cheeks 
glowing  and  her  fists  clenched.  "Taken  to 
her  bed!    That  old  Dragon !    Ugh!" 

When  she  had  turned  a  corner,  the  captain 
moved  heavily  back  to  the  steps  and  bent 
again  to  his  task  of  spattering. 

Once  he  straightened  up,  to  look  dreamily 
toward  the  harbor,  where  aslant  a  sunken 
ridgepole  and  tumbled  chimney  rose  a  well- 
beloved  topmast. 

"Hum!  That  sailorman,"  he  mused, — 
"Ulysses,  she  said  it  was,  —  wouldn't  mind 
doin'  like  him.  .  .  .  Left  his  wife,  though, 
did  n't  he  ?    Humph!    Not  for  me,  no  more." 

The  careful  process  of  maculation  finished, 
he  made  a  barrier  of  two  kegs  and  a  plank, 
with  large  letters  —  "P-A-I-N-T"—  to  warn 
a  neighborhood  whose  habit  of  calling  there 
had  ceased  years  ago. 

When  he  entered,  a  peevish  voice  issued 
from  the  open  door  of  the  bedchamber. 

"I  s'pose  you  expect  me  to  sleep  all  this 
time.^ —  Tap-tap-tap!  rap-rap-rap!  —  what 
were  you  puttering  about?" 


250  BEACHED  KEELS 

"Paintin'  the  steps,"  said  the  captain 
serenely. 

"  Painting  the  steps ! "  came  a  scornful  echo. 
"  Hark !  —  They  don't  need  it  more  'n  the 
cat  needs  another  tail!" 

The  captain  maintained  a  long  silence. 
He  added  a  stick  of  maple  to  the  parlor  iSre, 
then  took  a  letter  from  his  pocket,  and  stood 
reading.  The  single  sheet  appeared  to  require 
study;  at  last  he  shook  his  head  and  drew  a 
weary  breath.  His  next  attempt  at  cheerful- 
ness was  plainly  forced. 

"Might  be  kind  o'  fun  to  have  it,  though," 
he  remarked. 

"What.?"  called  the  invalid;  and  after  a 
pause,  fretfully,  "Have  what  .^" 

"Another  tail,"  said  the  captain,  in  an 
absent  voice,  scanning  his  letter  again. 

A  mutter  of  impatient  words  —  "sense" 
..."  second  childhood  "  .  .  .  "  idiot  "  — 
came  from  the  sickroom.  The  captain's 
great  shoulders  squared  in  a  slow,  patient 
heave,  as  he  smoothed  the  page.  It  ran  in 
crabbed  scrawl,  along  guide-lines  ruled  in 
pencil :  — 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  251 

Squaw  pool  Mascarene  isld. 
Capt.  Christie,  Esq, — 
dear  sir,  yrs.  of  16eth  to  hand  and  contents 
noted,  in  reply  will  start  wensday  fortnit  per 
stmr.  Auroaria  and  take  schr.  at  yr.  termes  as 
per  yrs.  of  16eth.  and  wd.  say,  wd.  hev  ansd. 
soonar  but  ben  suff ring  from  stummick  troble 
but  she  will  suit  me  fine  for  smoakwood  trade 
so  hopeing  you  are  well  I  will  close  from 
Yr.  Obdt.  Servt. 

Jno.  Follansbee. 

To  every  man,  except  smug  and  petty 
persons  ignored  by  destiny,  comes  at  least  one 
message  —  a  friendly  letter,  a  passing  whisper 
in  a  crowded  room,  a  shrewd,  cold  docu- 
ment clicked  off  in  purple  type,  the  word  of 
a  breathless  runner,  a  speech-mangled  tele- 
gram, or  a  shout  from  a  boat  alongside  in  the 
dark  —  to  strike  a  blow  which  is  the  be-all  and 
the  end-all  for  some  cherished  way  of  life. 
More  than  once  he  reads  the  written  decree, 
or  in  echoing  memory  hears  the  spoken;  and 
while  coming  to  believe  and  deeply  under- 
stand that  a  strange  hour  has  struck,  that  his 


252  BEACHED   KEELS 

life  has  swung  into  a  new  cycle  whose  grief 
lies  onward  and  whose  joy  behind,  he  must 
—  alone,  with  the  thing  in  his  pocket  or 
the  words  in  his  head  —  work  at  a  desk,  or 
navigate  a  ship,  or  chat  with  strangers,  or 
walk  floors,  or  sit  in  theatres,  or  paint  steps. 
Slowly,  therefore,  but  with  fixed  heart  and 
equal  mind,  the  captain  had  accepted  his 
message  in  its  finality. 

"  I  don't  see  exac'ly  how  I  '11  do  without 
her,"  he  reflected.  His  tall  bulk  filling  the 
little  window,  he  looked  out  once  more  at  the 
distant  topmast,  and  summarized  the  re- 
mainder of  his  old  age.  "  It  '11  be  like  —  like 
haulin'  in  on  a  slack  rope  —  with  nothin'  at 
the  end.  But  I  must  'a'  ben  kind  o'  selfish, 
frettin'  Her  about  it  so  long." 

Treading  lightly,  he  entered  the  sickroom, 
to  make  his  offering. 

"Well,  Carrie,"  he  announced  jovially, 
"guess  this  '11  interest  ye." 

"I  'm  not  deef,"  replied  his  consort,  who 
sat  propped  among  pillows,  her  sallow,  hostile 
face  appearing,  under  a  white  nightcap,  like 
the  sinister  freak  of  some  ill-omened  mas- 


CAPTAIN   CHRISTY  253 

querade.  "I  'm  not  deef.  You  no  need  to 
shout  so."  She  frowned  upon  the  letter  for  a 
space.  "Well,  you  're  lucky,"  she  continued. 
"He  must  be  a  fool,  to  want  that  hulk. 
What  a  scribble! —  Take  it  away;  it  hurts 
my  eyes.  Ever  going  to  bring  me  something 
to  eat  ?  If  I  can  have  anything  that 's  fit  to 
touch,  I  may  get  up  this  afternoon." 

Thus,  past  the  grimace  of  many  a  strange 
idol,  the  smoke  of  sacrifice  mounts  to  the  true 
acceptance. 


Ill 
Inside  the  cabin,  neatly  sombre  with  dark 
brown  woodwork,  it  was  neither  day  nor  night. 
An  old  brass  lamp  against  a  bulkhead,  stir- 
ring in  the  gimbals  at  the  petty  shock  of 
harbor  waves,  cast  a  tremulous  evening  glow 
on  the  Mongol  face  of  Zwinglius  Turner,  who 
sat  on  the  lower  stairs;  but  the  venerable, 
rough  head  of  the  captain,  who  stood  upright, 
caught  a  dull  gleam  —  slanting  down  from 
tiny  barred  windows  frost- white  with  fog  — 
as  from  some  wintry,  dungeon-like  dawn. 
The  captain's  air  was  of  business  and  re- 


254  BEACHED  KEELS 

flection;  the  mate's  that  heavy,  embarrassed 
gloom,  half  melancholy  decorum  and  half 
fidgets,  seen  in  figures  who  line  the  walls  at 
a  rustic  funeral. 

His  master  contemplated  a  picture  that 
he  had  just  unscrewed  from  the  bulkhead, 
—  a  discolored  likeness  of  a  patient,  heroic 
face. 

"  Ab'ram  Lincoln,"  he  said,  laying  it  on  the 
table.    "FoUansbee  won't  want  him.    I  do." 

He  stooped  into  the  warm  lamplight  and 
shadow  of  the  lower  level,  rummaged  in  a 
locker,  and,  drawing  out  various  treasures, 
heaped  them  on  the  table. 

"Now  this" — it  was  an  ancient  swallow- 
tail burgee,  red  and  white  —  "I  '11  ask  him 
if  I  can  keep  this.  .  .  .  Spare  lead-line, — 
well,  that 's  part  o'  the  fittin's;  that 's  his." 
A  bundle  of  old  saffron  pamphlets  thumped 
the  table,  and  sent  up  a  thin  cloud  of  dust. 
"Leave  him  those  for  readin',  —  Farmer's 
Almanacs:  the  back  of  'em  has  rafts  o'  good 
riddles  and  ketches."  Then  followed  a  small 
graven  image  in  black  tamarind  wood,  hand- 
fuls  of  cowrie  shells,  a  shark-tooth  necklace,  a 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  255 

fly-whisk,  the  carved  model  of  a  Massoola 
boat,  a  Malay  kriss,  a  paper  of  fish-hooks,  and 
a  brass  telescope.  The  captain's  hands  ran- 
sacked the  farthest  corners  of  the  locker;  they 
stopped  suddenly;  his  face  became  very  grave. 

"Can't  have  this,  anyway,"  he  said,  in  a 
voice  changed  and  troubled.  He  drew  forth 
a  red  and  blue  worsted  doll,  badly  stained, 
with  one  boot-button  eye.  "No,  by  James 
Rice,  he  can't!"  muttered  the  captain  pas- 
sionately. He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  his 
bunk,  as  in  the  black  mouth  of  a  crypt,  and, 
bunching  his  beard  in  one  gnarled  fist,  re- 
garded sadly  the  absurd  puppet  in  the  other. 

"I  never  expected  to  take  this  out  again, 
somehow,"  he  said,  in  a  vacant  tone  of 
soliloquy.  "She  put  it  away  in  there  herself 
—  nigh  on  to  forty  year  ago.  You  don't  go 
so  far  back,  do  ye,  Zing  ?  I  remember  when 
it  fell  overboard;  young  Kit  Chegwidden 
over  after  it.  My,  how  Eunice  cried!  Then 
she  kissed  him  for  savin'  it.  A  clever  boy. 
Kit :  master  o'  the  Jennie  Gus  now,  and  chil- 
dren of  his  own.    Time  goes  quick"  — 

The  old  man,  still  grasping  the  doll  gently. 


%5d  BEACHED   KEELS 

stared  downward  as  if  through  the  floor 
shadows  he  saw  into  the  deep  void  of  the  past. 

"Don't  think  I  could  'a'  stood  ever  seein' 
St.  Thomas  again  after  that" — 

He  was  thinking  of  the  only  voyage  his 
wife  had  made  with  him,  and  of  Eunice,  their 
only  child.  With  solemn  inward  vision, 
evoked  by  the  touch  of  a  lank  worsted  doll,  he 
recalled  the  sultry  nights  of  watching  and 
heartbreak  in  this  very  cabin,  the  flush  of 
the  fever  in  the  child's  cheeks,  the  gleaming 
disorder  of  her  bright  hair  on  the  pillow,  the 
glare  of  tropic  sun  on  a  white-hot  deck,  their 
silent  group  at  the  rail,  the  trembling  of  a 
little  black  book,  the  lofty  words  of  conso- 
lation, so  hard  to  read  aloud,  so  much  harder 
to  believe  when  that  frail  object,  intolerably 
precious,  was  committed  to  the  unstirring, 
blank,  august  emptiness  of  ocean. 

"Zing,  I  can  't  bear  to  sell  her,"  whispered 
the  old  man.  Fumbling  as  if  blind,  he  put 
away  the  doll  in  a  breast  pocket.  "I  can't 
bear  to." 

Zwinglius  cleared  his  throat,  said  nothing, 
shifted  his  boots.     In  a  heavy  silence  that 


CAPTAIN   CHRISTY  257 

grew  tangible,  he  rose  and  slowly  withdrew  up 
the  stairs,  disappearing  in  a  cloudy  square  of 
white  which  the  closing  door  blotted  out 
noiselessly. 

The  captain,  alone,  sat  staring  down  into 
the  dark  pool  of  bygone  years. 

Outside,  stumping  hoofs  passed  slowly 
down  the  pier,  a  clatter  of  loose  planks,  and 
the  doleful  mooing  of  cattle.  Shouts  rose: 
*'  Gangway  there  !  Hurrup  !  "  Footsteps 
pounded  the  deck,  and  past  the  window 
broad  shadows  flitted,  swiftly  intersecting. 
But  Captain  Christy  sat  oblivious;  not 
until  the  door  flew  open  with  a  resounding 
jar,  and  in  the  haze  above  stood  a  pair  of 
short,  heavy-booted  legs,  did  he  slowly  rise 
from  his  dream. 

"Sour  and  thick!"  shouted  a  hoarse  voice. 
A  burly  little  man  began  to  clamber  down, 
driving  before  him  into  the  lamplight  a  thin 
aureole  of  fog.  "Sour  and  thick!"  he  mut- 
tered, as  he  gained  the  floor.  Unwinding  a 
shepherd's  muffler,  he » disclosed  a  swarthy, 
black-bearded  face  and  twinkling  eyes.  "  Sour 
and  thick,   Cap'n  Christy!     A  spewy  day. 


258  BEACHED   KEELS 

Joe  e'enamost  drove  his  cows  over  the  bank. 
But  I  '11  git  her  oflF  now  —  ketch  this  ebb  — 
drop  down  's  fur  as  Lord's  Nubble :  one  cow 
for  the  lightkeeper  there  —  find  my  way  that 
fur  blindfold,  so  long  's  she  can  cut  the  fog, 
hey?"  He  laughed,  as  if  at  a  pleasant 
fancy. 

These  plans  for  an  alien  future  seemed 
hardly  to  touch  the  captain's  mind. 

"The'  's  some  things  there  on  the  table, 
Cap'n  Follansbee,"  he  said  quietly.  "Any- 
thing you  don't  want  kep',  I  '11  take  home." 

"Curios,  hey?"  boomed  the  new  master. 
He  grinned  at  them  like  a  good  little  pirate 
disdainful  of  plunder.  "No,  no,  cap'n!  Sou- 
verins  o'  foreign  parts,  eh  ?  No,  no,  you  keep 
'em  all.    Good  snug  cabin,  this,  —  fustrate!" 

"Well,  those  almanacs,"  urged  the  captain, 
stowing  the  keepsakes  away  in  spacious 
pockets.  "Now  you  take  those,  go  ahead. 
Ain't  noo,  o'  course,  —  ketches  and  rebuses 
just  as  good, — lots  o'  facts,  too." 

"All  right.  Thank  ye,"  said  the  other 
heartily.  "I  do  n't  care.  They  '11  keep  my 
mind  from  evil  thoughts." 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  259 

"Time  I  was  ashore,"  Captain  Christy 
mumbled.  He  searched  the  cabin  with  one 
long  look,  as  though  to  add  this  last  to  the 
scenes  that  thronged  in  his  old  memory; 
then  preceded  his  brother  mariner  up  into 
the  fog. 

At  the  rail  the  two  shook  hands.  Captain 
Christy  looked  down,  with  lips  compressed, 
as  if  something  hurt. 

"She's  a  clever  bo't,  Cap'n  Follansbee," 
he  said.  "Treat  her  kind,  now,  won't  ye?" 
And  he  swung  himself  over  to  the  pier. 

"Like  —  like  a  kitten!"  shouted  the 
younger  man,  already  busied  with  ropes. 
"  Here,  Joe,  ye  stootchit,  bear  a  hand  with  the 
spring!"  The  gap  widened  between  her  side 
and  the  pier-spilings.    "Like  a  kitten!" 

For  the  first  time  in  years  the  schooner 
moved  slowly  outward  along  the  wharf.  A 
tow-rope  over  her  bow  rose  taut,  fell  slack, 
—  jerking  from  out  the  heart  of  the  fog  the 
smoky  outline  of  a  boat  with  waving  oars,  — 
rose  dripping,  and  ran  taut  again  into  blank 
whiteness.  Captain  Christy,  Zwinglius,  and 
a  knot  of  loungers  walked  alongside  the  ship 


260  BEACHED   KEELS 

out  to  the  final  snub-posts.  Her  stern  loomed 
large,  grew  veiled  and  insubstantial,  dissolved, 
and  with  the  "chock-chock"  of  oars  and 
lowing  of  disconsolate  cows,  the  Rapscallion 
had  become  a  name  and  pictured  vanity  of 
the  past.  The  breath  of  her  departure  swept 
their  dim  group  on  the  pier,  in  ponderous- 
rolling  smoke  as  of  some  cold,  noiseless 
battle. 

"Why  did  n't  ye  go  with  her,  Zing.?"  said 
the  captain  suddenly.  "  Follansbee  promised 
me  to  offer  ye  the  place." 

The  mate  turned  his  face  away ;  but  for  the 
first  time  in  history  he  made  a  blunt  answer. 

"Didn't  want  to,"  he  declared.  This 
plunge  made  him  dare  another  boldness. 
—  "Come  on  home  now,  cap'n.  No  more 
to  see." 

"Well,  cap'n,  all  over,"  called  Bunty 
Gildersleeve,  lurching  up  beside  them,  his 
beard  a  frosty  silver  with  the  damp.  "Ye 
know,  I  kind  o'  miss  her  already.  W'arf 
don't  seem  the  same." 

"Do  ye.?"  replied  Captain  Christy,  in  a 
dazed  fashion.    "Yes,  that 's  so."    He  stared 


CAPTAIN   CHRISTY  261 

into  the  fog.  **  All  over,"  he  repeated  mechan- 
ically. 

As  he  tramped  homeward,  the  noon  bell 
tolled  dismally.  School  children,  cowed  by 
the  cold  mist,  pattered  by  in  a  solemn  little 
flock.  Through  the  obscurity  heaved  a  larger 
blur,  —  Joyce,  their  teacher,  herding  them. 

The  captain's  vacant  answer  to  her  hail,  his 
apathy  as  they  walked  on  together,  made 
Joyce  linger  at  the  gate  to  ask :  — 

"  How  is  Mrs.  Christy  to-day  ?  " 

"Better,  thank  ye.  'Pears  to  be  all  right 
now,  for  some  little  time.  Thank  ye.  Up  and 
about,  ye  know." 

"That 's  good,"  said  Joyce.  After  a  pause 
she  asked:  "Oh,  captain,  is  it  true,  what 
they  tell  me,  that  you  're  going  to  sell  the 
schooner  ?  "  Her  tone  and  aspect  were  of 
the  utmost  innocence. 

"Hev  sold  it,"  he  replied  curtly.  As  she 
had  hoped,  he  caught  no  drift  between  her 
two  questions ;  but  the  cloud  that  settled  over 
the  kind  old  face  made  her  repent  of  the 
strategy.  "She  went  out  this  mornin's  ebb," 
he  continued.    "  Got  a  fair  price,  though." 


262  BEACHED   KEELS 

Joyce  had  to  break  the  silence. 

"I  'm  glad  Mrs.  Christy  's  feeling  better," 
she  ventured  lamely.  "  Has  she  —  did  she  get 
outdoors  on  any  of  those  pleasant  days  last 
week?" 

"She  don't  go  out  much  any  time,"  said 
the  captain  with  regret.  "That 's  why  she 
seems  so  much  better  now  —  better  'n  I  've 
seen  her  for  a  long  time  —  talks  o'  goin'  to 
visit  Up  the  Line." 

As  this  phrase  meant  anywhere  between 
Cape  Sable  and  Toronto,  Joyce  looked 
puzzled. 

"Her  fam'ly,  the  Defews,"  he  explained. 
"She's  kep'  writin'  to  'em  —  I  mean,"  he 
added  in  confusion,  "  they  've  kep'  writin'  to 
her  to  come  up  and  visit.  She  says  we  can 
afford  it  now  that  —  afford  it  better  'n  we 
could." 

The  "girl's  eyes  grew  very  wide  and 
round. 

"Of  course  you'll  be  going  too?"  she 
conjectured. 

"Me?"  said  the  captain,  amazed;  "Lord, 
no!" 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  263 

Some  strong  emotion,  following  all  this 
enlightenment,  compelled  Joyce  to  cut  their 
interview  short. 

"I  hope  she  '11  enjoy  it."  She  spoke  stiffly, 
and  turned  away,  prim  with  self-restraint. 
**  Good-morning,  captain." 

"Now  what  did  I  say  to  make  her  mad  ?" 
wondered  Captain  Christy,  watching  as  the 
fog  veiled  and  enveloped  her.  "  I  'm  sorry  — 
Humph! —    Funny  critters." 

Still  perplexed  over  this,  and  downcast 
from  the  morning's  work,  he  navigated  among 
the  autumnal  stalks  in  the  little  garden, 
stopped  to  see  if  his  hydrangea  had  shaken  off 
its  last  petals,  and  then,  skirting  round  to  the 
back  door,  entered  his  workshop.  Here  a 
bench,  of  spinster-like  neatness,  ran  athwart  a 
noble  confusion:  old  coats,  oilskins,  boots, 
lined  the  walls  like  votive  offerings  after  ship- 
wreck; in  the  window  a  frigate-bird,  badly 
stuffed,  perked  a  vicious  bill  as  if  to  puncture 
the  balloon  breast  of  a  dried  sea-robin;  and  in 
the  corners,  over  the  floor,  on  shelves,  lay 
heaps  of  nautical  rubbish, — bits  of  chain,  pots 
of  dried  paint,  resin,  and  tar,  broken  oars. 


264  BEACHED  KEELS 

coiled  ropes,  and  a  mound  of  gear  —  double, 
clew-line,  long-tackle,  and  snatch-blocks, — 
like  a  cairn  raised  to  mark  an  ended  activity. 

The  captain  had  emptied  his  pockets  of 
their  "  souverins,"  and,  with  one  hand  thrust 
in  breast-high,  was  considering  where  to 
bestow  the  worsted  doll,  when  the  door  from 
the  kitchen  opened,  and  Mrs.  Christy  stood 
looking  in.  Fortune,  good  or  ill,  had  chosen 
this  heavy-hearted  moment  of  the  captain's 
meditation. 

"Who  was  that  you  were  talking  to.^"  she 
demanded,  curiosity  qualifying  the  wonted 
disapproval  in  her  tone. 

"Oh,  that  was  Joyce,"  replied  the  captain, 
from  a  distance  of  thought. 

"Again!"  snapped  his  wife.  A  shadow  of 
ill-will  gathered  on  her  heavy  features. 
"Always  gadding  round  with  her,  or  some 
young  woman.     At  your  age  of  life,  too!" 

For  the  first  time  in  many  days,  the  cap- 
tain's temper  sounded  in  his  voice. 

"Come,  Carrie,  don't  be  foolish,"  he  com- 
manded sharply.  "Don't  say  things  you 
don't  mean."    He  spoke  more  gently:  "  Joyce 


CAPTAIN   CHRISTY  265 

is  a  fine  girl,  and  I  'm  master  fond  of  her. 
Seems  like  a  daughter,  —  a'most." 

"  Oh,  so  I  'm  a  fool,  am  I  ?  "  inquired  Mrs. 
Christy  with  bitterness.  "Thank  you.  And 
next  I  s'pose  you  '11  remind  me  we  have  n't 
any  children  of  our  own"  — 

"Carrie,"  interrupted  the  old  man,  with  a 
sad  look,  indescribable  and  penetrating.  The 
faint  color  of  aged,  wintry  emotion  flushed  in 
his  cheeks  above  the  white  beard.  "  I  did  n't 
think  you  'd  speak  like  this  —  rememberin' — 
well,  rememberin'  little  Eunice." 

Thus  began  another  causeless  battle,  ob- 
scure, long-drawn,  unworthy,  involved  in 
everyday  matters,  acts,  words,  looks,  silences, 
trivial  in  themselves,  but  —  as  hovel,  or  hedge, 
or  waterhole  in  greater  warfare  —  invested 
with  the  unhappy  dignity  of  conflict.  The 
captain  craved  only  peace ;  it  was  his  wife  who 
found  the  pretexts  and  broke  the  truces,  with 
the  aimless,  chronic  hostility  that  had  become 
her  nature  and  occupation. 

The  townspeople  had  already  discussed  her 
projected  visit "  Up  the  Line;"  as  bare  autumn 
was  freezing  into  winter  they  learned,  with 


266  BEACHED  KEELS 

the  gradual  shock  of  placid  minds,  that  she 
had  gone,  declaring  her  purpose  never  to 
come  back.  "If  she  said  it,  she  '11  keep  her 
word,"  the  gossips  decided,  with  deep  know- 
ledge of  her  character.  Witnesses  who  had 
watched  her  embark  in  Sam  Tipton's  stage 
proved  that  she  had  said  it  repeatedly,  loudly, 
in  glib  succession. 

"She  won't  come  back,"  Sam  deposed, 
with  a  valedictory  oath.  "Am  I  sure  ?  Hope 
so,  anyway.    I  hat  to  drive  her  twenty  mile." 

Zwinglius  Turner,  when  first  cornered, 
was  unsatisfactory.  "  No  —  that 's  right  — 
she  's  gone  fer  good,"  he  stammered,  with  a 
shy,  golden  grin.  But  his  wish  was  too  plainly 
father  to  that  thought. 

The  captain  himself  supplied  the  final 
evidence.  One  chill  and  sparkling  November 
day  Mr.  Gildersleeve  found  him  pacing  the 
empty  wharf.  His  step  was  laggard,  his 
carriage  perceptibly  older,  and,  though  on  a 
week  day,  he  bore  his  Malacca  stick  with  the 
carbine-cartridge  ferule. 

"The  sea  is  powerful  callin',  ain't  it?"  he 
asked  thoughtfully.    Side  by  side  they  looked 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  267 

across  the  dancing  sunlight  of  the  harbor 
to  the  black  fir  islands  patched  with  snow. 
"Powerful  callin'.  The'  's  lots  o'  clumsy 
beggars  aboard  o'  bo'ts,  too  —  Ye  know 
Bunty,  the  roughest  part  is,  I  might  jus'  as 
well  kep'  the  vessel,  ajter  all." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  his  friend  had  ever 
heard  him  speak  bitterly. 


The  swift  invasion  of  winter  had  changed 
the  cosy  village,  and  the  autumnal  land  whose 
Northern  strength  was  more  than  beauty, 
into  a  huddling  camp,  a  bare,  angular  outpost 
against  cold  desolation.  The  harbor  lay  dull 
and  blackened,  as  though  winter-killed;  scat- 
tered islets  shone  like  alabaster  domes  of 
drowned  mausoleums;  along  the  foreshore 
the  wharves  ran  in  bony  snowbanks  across 
gleaming  slopes  and  valleys  of  thin,  sallow  ice, 
which,  at  the  hidden  work  of  tides  in  clear 
morning  silences,  surprised  the  bleak  solitude 
with  little,  far-heard  noises  of  straining, 
crashing,  tinkling,  as  if  invisible  wanderers 
among  the  hummocks  were  to  smash  through 


268  BEACHED  KEELS 

areas  of  glass.  At  long  intervals  the  dirty 
sails  of  a  schooner  crawled  along  the  lifted 
skyline.  The  ragged  granite  of  the  moun- 
tains, sharp  against  an  Italian  blue  of  winter 
skies,  bore  white  symbols,  gigantic  and 
undecipherable ;  their  sides  were  burnt  brown, 
charred  bitterly,  cut  with  long  scars  of  snow; 
from  their  bases  the  bare  hills,  ridged  with  un- 
dulating spines  of  buried  fences,  and  rearing 
now  and  then  the  Christmas  spire  of  a  lonely 
evergreen,  sloped  away  to  the  glitter  of  the  fields 
and  the  pink  haze  of  lowland  alders.  Only  the 
promontories  ran  their  great  nebs  down  into 
the  sea,  steadfast  in  stern  verdure,  scorning 
to  change  with  seasons  or  with  centuries. 

For  hours,  for  half-days,  nothing  stirred  in 
the  main  street  of  the  seaport,  except  a  wraith 
of  powdery  snow.  The  ocean  wind,  on  howl- 
ing nights,  had  by  the  freaks  of  its  own  will 
heaped  drifts  against  windows,  or  swept  the 
frozen  road  bare  to  the  fossil  hoofprints  from 
the  age  of  summer.  Rarely,  and  strangely  as 
if  down  and  out  from  the  painted  vista  of  a 
stage  background,  appeared  a  man  trudging, 
a  mittenful  of  snow  held  to  his  ear,  and  his 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  269 

beard  fringed  with  shapeless  beads  of  ice. 
Such  figures,  without  exception,  paused  under 
a  wooden  boat  that  threatened  the  path  from 
above  a  window  where  a  Hghted  lamp  kept  the 
frost  melting.  They  kicked  the  snow  from 
their  heels,  and  entered. 

Mr.  Laurel's  shop  was  a  winter  club  by 
day  and  night.  He  was  a  ruddy,  solemn 
little  cobbler,  whose  leather  apron  bulged 
over  a  comfortable  stomach,  and  round  whose 
ear  coiled  always  a  "waxed  end."  Inor- 
dinate smoker  and  debater,  local  authority  on 
music,  he  shone  in  these  long  days  when  —  as 
Bunty  Gildersleeve  expressed  it  —  there  was 
"nuthin'  but  sit  by  the  fire  and  drink  whiskey 
and  tell  lies."  Whenever  discussion  drooped, 
some  one  called  out,  "  Give  us  a  toon,  now, 
come."  And  Mr.  Laurel,  washing  his  hands 
with  an  extravagance  of  soap  and  drying  them 
fastidiously  on  the  shop  towel,  opened  an 
ancient  case  in  a  corner,  and  sat  down  before 
his  musical  glasses.  He  waved  circles  of 
practice  in  the  air,  bent  over,  and,  touching 
the  clustered  rims  reverently,  drew  forth  thin, 
vocal  harmonies  of  surprising  sweetness.  The 


270  BEACHED  KEELS 

concert  always  began  with  "Home,  Sweet 
Home"  or  "Forsaken;"  always  ended  with 
"  Old  Black  Joe,"  when  the  artist,  swaying 
backward,  was  lost  in  his  work.  "You  can 
hear  ut  sayin'  the  words,"  he  breathed,  yearn- 
ing with  tearful  rapture  toward  the  ceiling. 
The  audience,  respectful,  soothed,  in  wreaths 
and  layers  of  thick  smoke  from  clay  pipes, 
formed  a  circle  of  serious,  weatherbeaten  faces, 
of  big  legs  crossed  luxuriously,  of  protruding 
boot-toes  that  gently  waggled  to  the  rhythm 
of  the  harmonica. 

Their  talk  circumnavigated  the  realms  of 
free  speculation:  what  best  cured  the  bots; 
whether  King  Solomon  might  not  have  known 
about  electricity;  whether  hairs  could  be 
changed  to  water-serpents ;  whether  heroes  of 
the  Fenian  raid  should  have  medals;  what 
might  be  the  properest  way  of  building  a  weir; 
whether  ministers  were  better  than  other 
folks;  and  what  place  good  dogs  have  in  the 
Hereafter. 

Frequently  upon  these  abstract  thoughts 
broke  in  a  loud  scuflBe  and  a  hoarse  mutter- 
ing at  the  door,  and  old  Gale  the  fisherman 


CAPTAIN   CHRISTY  271 

stumped  in,  filthy,  red-eyed,  bearded  with 
icicles,  strangely  invested  in  a  chafed  leathern 
reefer  and  a  bell-crowned  silk  hat,  like  some 
Ancient  Mariner  of  low  farce. 

"Hallelujah!"  he  croaked  inconsequently, 
shifting  a  feeble  glare  about  the  room. 
"  Rejoice,    bretherin ! " 

**Mornin',  doctor,"  they  replied.  "How 
the  patients  this  cold  spell  .^  " 

"Healt  the  sick  and  cast  out  divils,"  recited 
the  old  man,  as  if  struggling  hoarsely  against 
a  storm  that  defeated  his  shouts.  "Causin' 
the  blind  to  walk  and  the  lame  to  clap  their 
hands.  No  credit  to  me,  bretherin.  Pro- 
vidence done  it.  Praise  the  Lord!  Who  's 
got  a  fig  o'  tabacca?" 

To  become  a  doctor  was  the  fisherman's 
mode  of  hibernating.  A  fat  book  —  "  Cost 
me  five  dollar!"  he  roared  —  which  contained 
as  frontispiece  an  M.D.'s  diploma  perforated 
at  the  edge,  to  be  torn  out  and  framed;  a  black 
oilcloth  bag,  holding  bottles  and  boxes, 
"  Opydeldock,  hartshorn,  medder-sage,  black 
cohosh,  tinction  o'  nitre,  arnicky;"  and  a  tall, 
rusty  silk  hat  which  called  forth  reminiscences 


272  BEACHED  KEELS 

of  Mr.  Beatty  as  a  young  bridegroom,  —  with 
nothing  more,  he  annually  joined  the  noble 
army  of  Hippocrates.  The  wonder  was  that, 
although  these  sources  of  his  dignity  were 
simple  and  known,  the  doctor  found  a  patient 
or  two  nearly  every  season.  The  first  reproach 
of  all  physicians  he  had  silenced  this  winter, 
by  healing  himself:  "them  turr'ble  cracklin's 
in  the  drums  o'  my  head,  I  stopped  'em  all 
with  the  marrer  of  a  hog's  jaw." 

"Jawbon'  of  an  ass,  ye  mean,"  growled 
Bunty  Gildersleeve.  But  even  he  was  im- 
pressed by  the  historical  fact  that  old  Mr. 
Lightborn,  a  farmer  Up  the  Line,  had  sent 
down  a  homemade  diagnosis  of  his  daughter's 
case,  when  she  had  shown  a  distressing  fond- 
ness for  "a  idel,  dangers  man,  a  drunkart  and 
a  gamboler." 

"I  sent  'er  a  love-philtre,"  bellowed  the 
doctor.  "Took  it  in  her  tea  and  knew  no 
better !    Fixed  'er  up !    Hallelujah  1 " 

And  indeed,  all  knew  that  Miss  Lightborn 
had  shortly  transferred  her  passion  to  a  quiet 
young  man  of  considerable  property,  out  on 
the  Ridges. 


CAPTAIN   CHRISTY  273 

Or  perhaps,  when  the  medical  fisher  had 
been  quieted  with  the  loan  of  a  tobacco-pipe, 
their  talk  wandered  into  foreign  lands.  Cap-, 
tain  Christy  came  in  seldom  now,  and  said 
almost  nothing;  so  Mr.  Gildersleeve,  second 
only  to  him  as  a  great  traveler,  bore  off  the 
honors. 

"And  so  we  run  clos'  in,  and  fired  our 
muskuts  right  amongst  the  bazzarr  there  on 
the  shore,  and  wore  ship  and  stood  out  to 
sea,"  he  would  conclude. 

"But  how  could  ye  git  along,"  propounded 
the  skeptical  Mr.  Laurel,  "in  them  foreign 
places  where  they  dunno  how  to  talk.?" 

"Learnt  the  lingo,"  drawled  the  story- 
teller scornfully.  "Wha'd  ye  think.?  Fol- 
lerin'  the  sea,  a  man  picks  up  lots  o'  the  dead 
languages." 

"Give  us  some  Dutch,"  challenged  a 
listener. 

"Wee  gates,"  said  Bunty,  with  readiness. 
"  Much  as  to  say, '  How 's  the  boy  ? ' —  I  know 
some  Spanish,  too." 

"Let 's  hear  ye,"  scoffed  the  cobbler,  in  a 
tone  of  profound  unbelief. 


274  BEACHED  KEELS 

"Addy  Oats,"  was  the  reply. 

"Who  's  she  ?"  asked  several  voices. 

"Way  them  Dons  says  *good-by,'"  he 
explained.  "And  they  go  fricasseein'  round 
with  therr  hats,  so  —  Many  the  time  I 
watched  'em  doin'  ut  in  Barrcelony." 

"What's  the  French  like?"  another  de- 
manded. 

"  Quiddlety,"  pronounced  the  linguist. 

"Oh,  get  out  with  ye,"  cried  Mr.  Laurel, 
plying  an  awl  contemptuously.  "  'T  ain't. 
I  've  heard  'em  myself,  up  at  Troy's  Pistols 
one  summer.     'T  ain't  the  least  bit  like  ut." 

"Captain  Christy,"  appealed  Mr.  Gilder- 
sleeve  with  dignity,  "  ain't  that  how  the  Crapos 
ask  ye  what  time  o'  day  ut  is  ?    Come,  now." 

The  captain  roused  slowly  from  another 
revery;  his  vision  returned  to  present  objects, 
and  with  absent-minded  tolerance  he  replied : 
"Yes,  that 's  right,  so  fur 's  I  know,  Bunty." 

But  his  face  seldom  lighted  nowadays;  he 
soon  withdrew  into  caverns  of  deep-eyed 
silence ;  and  perhaps  would  neither  speak  nor 
stir  again  until  the  clangor  of  the  noon  bell 
startled  the  winter  air  and  broke  up  their 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  275 

morning  session.  Even  when  he  returned  to 
the  cottage,  which  he  and  ZwingHus  now  kept 
together  by  strict  rule  of  shipboard,  his 
unshared  thought  still  enfolded  him  as  clouds 
about  a  mountain  castle. 

Though  all  the  village  noticed  this  change, 
none  grieved  so  heartily  as  Joyce.  On  Sun- 
days, from  the  tiny  organ-loft  of  the  church, 
she  looked  down  with  ineffectual  pity  on  the 
tall  figure  below,  the  broad,  spare  shoulders 
slightly  bent,  the  great  white  head,  anointed 
with  a  wine-red  stain  from  a  window-shaft  of 
sunlight.  And  when  at  her  touch  "  St.  Ann's  " 
quavered  from  the  doddering  organ,  she  lis- 
tened for  the  brave  old  bass  that  vibrated 
beneath  the  other  voices,  strong  as  a  deep-sea 
current :  — 

"  Time  Kke  an  ever-rolling  stream 
Bears  all  its  sons  away: 
They  fly  forgotten,  as  a  dream 
Dies  at  the  opening  day. 


**0  God,  our  help  in  ages  past. 
Our  hope  for  years  to  come. 
Our  shelter  from  the  stormy  blast. 
And  our  eternal  home." 

Yes,  thought  the  girl  as  she  played,  he  was 


276  BEACHED   KEELS 

without  fear  and  strongly  comforted;  but  the 
youthful  sense  of  justice  rebelled  within  her, 
and,  forgetting  the  stern  conditions  of  this  our 
race,  she  wondered  why  he,  who  kept  the 
faith,  could  not  finish  the  course  without  the 
burden  of  a  late  sorrow.  She  longed  for  a 
chance  to  lighten  it. 

And  so  when  onq  day  the  captain,  chopping 
a  frozen  log,  cut  his  foot  with  a  glancing  blow, 
it  was  not  wholly  a  misfortune.  With  an 
excuse  to  leave  her  lodgings  at  Mrs.  Gilder- 
sleeve's,  she  at  once  moved  into  the  captain's 
house,  took  charge,  and  managed  the  restless 
prisoner  like  a  child. 

"Now  don't  you  dare,"  she  commanded, 
before  each  morning  tramp  to  school,  "  don't 
you  dare  take  it  down  off  that  chair!  Stand 
by!" 

"Aye,  aye,"  returned  the  captain  comfort- 
ably. He  sat  by  the  window,  the  bandaged  foot 
elevated  on  cushions,  and  one  of  her  books 
at  his  elbow.  "Stand  by  it  is,  marm!"  And 
when  she  reached  the  gate  again  at  noon,  a  big 
hand  waving  in  the  window  showed  him  still 
at  his  post. 


CAPTAIN   CHRISTY  277 

It  was  a  happy  time  in  the  Httle  house :  the 
cloud  descended  sometimes  on  the  captain, 
but  more  rarely  and  briefly.  There  were  long 
evenings  when  Zwinglius  rolled  out  to  gather 
news  at  Laurel's;  when  age  and  youth  sat 
together  trading  confidences,  slowly,  with 
many  intervals;  when  the  clock  ticked,  the 
Northern  Spies  roasted  sputtering  between 
the  andirons,  the  wood  fire  purred  for  snow,  or 
a  frosty  nail  started  like  a  pistol  shot  in  the 
night. 

"And  now  why,"  Joyce  questioned,  as  if 
their  talk  had  not  faltered,  "why  do  they 
seem  to  think  young  people  are  always  happy, 
and  all  that  ?  I  think  we  're  more  perplexed 
and  troubled  than  older  ones,  and  selfish  — 
Yes,  I  do  —  and  —  and  often  cruel." 

"  Oh,  that 's  all  right,"  declared  the  cap- 
tain, nodding  wisely,  as  if  to  dismiss  a  trifle. 
"Ye  must  enjoy  yourself  while  you  're  young. 
'T  ain't  right  not  to.  And  then  when  ye  git 
to  be  old  —  well,  the'  's  lots  o'  nice  things 
about  bein'  old,  too.  Lots.  Only  fault  I  got 
to  find  with  it  is  that  things  won't  stop  a  while 
for  ye  —  only  a  —  sort  o'  —  breathin'  spell 


278  BEACHED  KEELS 

while  ye  can  watch  everything  jest  as  'tis 
—  and  see  friends  happy,  and  —  No;  things 
cHp  right  along.  That 's  all  seems  hard. 
They  don't  stop  nor  stay  for  ye." 

The  hand  of  the  tall  clock  crawled  through 
a  quarter  circle  before  either  spoke  again. 

"Now  me,"  the  captain  mused.  A  burnt 
log  crashed  into  a  ruin  of  rosy  coals  that  lit  up 
his  whimsical  smile.  "I  ben  master  sulky 
these  days.  Ever  sence  I  sold  the  vessel  — 
and  She  went." 

Joyce  reached  up  from  her  hassock,  and 
captured  one  of  his  big  fingers  on  the  chair- 
arm. 

"Master  sulky,"  he  continued.  "The 
Book  says,  *  There  remaineth  a  rest.'  I  know, 
too.  That  's  so.  But  not  yet,  ye  see,  not 
right  now.  Work  —  that  's  what  I  want. 
As  young  's  I  ever  felt,  and  can't  give  up  the 
sea  yet  a  while.  Why,  ye  would  n't  think, 
Joyce,  the  time  I  lay  awake  nights  thinkin' 
how  much  I  want  to  go  another  v'yage  or 
two." 

"I  wish  you  could,"  said  the  girl  sorrow- 
fully. 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  279 

"P'raps  I  may,  some  time,"  he  responded. 
"  Kind  o'  hev  a  feelin'  it  '11  come  about. 
Now,  if  I  had  a  ship  this  minute  a-layin'  at  the 
foot  o'  King  Street  in  St.  John,  why.  Wood 
and  Guthrie  'd  give  me  a  cargo.  Yes,  sir! 
They  know  me.  That 's  what  'ud  happen. 
Hmm!    So  good  't  won't  come  true." 

Although  the  lame  foot  soon  grew  sound 
again,  they  found  their  evenings  too  pleasant 
to  forego.  The  captain  begged,  worthy  Mrs. 
Gildersleeve  took  his  side,  and  Joyce  was 
glad  enough  to  remain  in  what  seemed  to  be 
her  first  home.  The  winter  crept  along, 
through  blind  storm  and  freezing  brightness. 

One  day,  as  Captain  Christy  sat  at  break- 
fast, Zwinglius  darted  in,  stuttering :  — 

"  She-she-she  —  she  's  nosin'  round  galley- 
west  and  crookit,  cap'n!  Nobody  can't  make 
out  what  she  's  aimin'  fer  to  do!" 

"Who.'^"  the  captain  asked  severely. 

"Why,  this  here  ship,"  stammered  the 
mate.  "  She  's  a-gormin'  round  the  bay,  — 
three  ways  fer  Sunday." 

The  captain  strode  to  the  entry,  fought  his 
way  into  an  overcoat,  hauled  down  the  ear- 


280  BEACHED   KEELS 

laps  of  his  enormous  cap,  and  marched  out- 
doors. The  mate  trotted  behind  him  down 
the  windswept  road,  dangUng  a  brace  of  fat 
overshoes,  which  he  begged  the  captain  to 
put  on. 

Puffs  of  light  breeze  chased  thin  snow- veils 
along  the  petrified  ruts,  twirled  them  upward 
in  faint  spirals,  strewed  them  suddenly  broad- 
cast. A  white  hill  that  bared  its  smooth  con- 
tour beyond  the  town  smoked  with  vapors  of 
snow  that  —  clinging  close  as  the  steam  about 
the  body  of  a  sweating  horse  —  rose  slowly, 
and  shifted  against  the  lemon  glare  of  an 
arctic  sun.  Beyond  the  foot  of  the  slope, 
where  the  dead  vista  of  the  street  broke  wide 
upon  the  harbor,  a  brigantine  lay  motionless, 
in  stays,  her  scant  canvas  sagging  in  black- 
shadowed  wrinkles. 

A  knot  of  men  watched  her  from  the  verge 
of  the  yellow  beach  ice. 

"What  d'  ye  think,  cap'n.J^"  called  Bunty, 
as  the  two  approached.  "  What  kind  o'  didos 
they  cuttin'  up  aboard  her?  See,  there  they 
go  ag'in!" 

The  brigantine  fell  off  on  a  short,  aimless 


CAPTAIN   CHRISTY  281 

leg  as  if  to  run  down  a  group  of  landward  isles, 
slatted  up  in  irons  again,  came  about  on  the 
opposite  tack,  made  nothing  but  leeway,  and 
at  last,  —  when  the  company  of  numb  watch- 
ers, beating  arms  and  stamping,  had  turned 
away  in  disgust  from  her  drunken  repetition, 

—  she  suddenly  went  off,  caught  the  wind 
abaft  her  beam,  and  stood  out  to  sea. 

All  morning  speculation  ran  riot  at  Lau- 
rel's; and  when,  that  afternoon,  the  brigan- 
tine  reappeared,  to  knock  about  as  before, 
they  could  have  pitched  their  excitement 
no  higher  for  Captain  Kidd  and  his  Jolly 
Roger. 

"  If  she  wants  to  stave  a  hole  in  her  bottom" 

—  began  Captain  Christy;  he  stopped  short, 
and  spoke  no  more  that  afternoon,  but  with 
shining  eyes  paced  back  and  forth,  fidgeted, 
chuckled  strangely.  His  conduct,  amazing 
his  friends,  added  to  the  day's  mysteries. 

While  the  sun  was  still  two  hours  aloft,  a 
boat  put  off  from  the  brigantine,  pulled  shore- 
ward, and  landed  a  solitary  passenger,  —  a 
mean-faced  little  man  in  pea-jacket  and  hip- 
boots.    He  scornfully  asked  for  the  telegraph 


282  BEACHED  KEELS 

office,  cursed  it  for  being  twenty  miles  away, 
bought  a  pint  of  whiskey,  and  drove  off  with 
Sam  Tipton's  boy  in  a  pung.  The  two  sailors 
who  had  rowed  him  were  of  the  city-bred 
type,  and  remained  unsociable  even  after 
rounds  of  drink.  "Yes,  he  's  mate  o'  the 
Amirald,"  they  said  gruffly.  "An'  a  bum 
one,  too.  An'  she  wants  a  tow,  an'  he  's  gone 
to  telegraph  up  river  for  a  tug,  an'  by  God, 
that 's  all  you  Reubens  pumps  out  o'  us. 
Hey,  whiskers.^" 

When  nine  o'clock  passed,  and  no  captain 
came  to  supper,  Joyce  began  an  anxious 
expedition.  A  piercing  sea  wind,  in  sudden, 
wrestling  gusts,  filled  her  cloak,  raged  at  her 
skirts,  checked  her  as  though  against  the 
bellying  of  an  invisible  sail;  then  dropped, 
was  gone,  and  left  all  things  without  breath 
or  movement,  except  the  high  stars  racing 
through  rifts  into  blackness.  In  such  pauses 
she  caught  now  and  then  a  hoarse  bellow,  a 
deep,  throbbing  bass  note  in  the  distance. 

In  the  pathway  of  light  from  a  window  she 
met  the  captain,  marching  with  head  erect 
and  face  radiant. 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  283 

"You  sinner!"  she  scolded,  taking  his  arm. 
"  Why  did  you  worry  me,  wandering  round  on 
such  a  bad,  raw  night  ?" 

"That 's  all  right,"  he  boomed,  in  a  voice 
of  exhilaration.  "  She  's  never  showed  a  light, 
—  nary  a  flicker!  An'  there  's  the  tug  tootin' 
round  for  her!    Not  a  flicker!" 

The  hoarse  whistle  sounded  again  in  the 
stillness.  Far  out,  a  green  coal  moved  over 
the  face  of  the  waters;  a  red  coal  joined  it; 
both  gleamed  lustrous  for  a  moment;  then, 
with  a  bellow,  the  green  vanished. 

"Try  again!"  the  captain  advised  satiri- 
cally. "  P'raps  the  Amirald  's  short  o'  karo- 
sene!" 

"  What 's  it  all  about  ? "  asked  the  girl, 
tugging  him  homeward.  "What  have  you 
been  up  to  all  this  time.?" 

"  Moon-cussin',"  explained  the  culprit. 
"  Jest  a  little  moon-cussin'.  In  a  few  days  I  '11 
tell  ye,  p'raps."  He  listened  for  sounds  in  a 
chill  gust  that  staggered  them.  "  Good  noos, 
I  think,  Joyce  girl.  Aye,  aye,  home  it  is, 
then." 


284  BEACHED  KEELS 


V 

On  calm  April  days, — when  the  buff  fields, 
restored  to  sunlight,  began  to  be  furred  with 
a  faint  green;  when  the  last  forgotten  snow- 
drifts were  sparsely  inlaid  in  the  dark  north 
banks  of  nook-shotten  isles,  mountains,  or 
headlands,  and  over  the  black  bay  cakes  of 
river-ice  floated  seaward;  when  the  lee  of 
every  gray  house  sheltered  a  patch  of  reviving 
turf  spangled  with  the  broad  goldpieces  of 
dandelions,  and  every  flaw  of  wind  brought 
smells  of  wet  earth  and  brushwood  smoke,  — 
a  visitor  might  have  thought  that  the  past  also 
had  been  reborn.  For  alongside  the  wharf,  in 
the  Rapscallion's  bed,  lay  a  vessel,  from  the 
deck  of  which,  on  warm  noons,  rose  the  hum 
of  voices.  The  men  were  as  before,  and  above 
them,  as  before,  reared  the  massive  head  and 
shoulders  of  Captain  Christy.  But  time  had 
not  been  cheated:  things  were  not  the  same. 
Slanting  yards  crossed  the  vessel's  foremast; 
her  lines  were  bolder,  more  dashing,  than 
those  of  the  beloved  schooner;  and  on  board, 
instead  of  holiday  chat  in  the  sunshine,  there 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  285 

sounded  busy  hammering,  pounding,  over- 
hauling. 

Up  from  the  black  yawn  of  the  main  hatch 
swarmed  Zwinglius  Turner,  grinning  and 
active,  like  a  Chinese  pirate  in  blue  dungaree 
daubed  with  filth.  A  thin  gray  cloud  of  dust 
rose  after  him. 

"  Whee-e-e!  Stinks  down  there!"  he  cried 
joyfully.  His  voice,  movement,  and  whole 
aspect  were  those  of  a  man  intoxicated  with 
delight. 

So  had  they  been  ever  since  that  famous 
winter  day  when,  like  a  bomb  in  the  main 
street,  burst  the  news  that  Captain  Christy  had 
bought  the  damaged  hulk  of  the  Amirald, 
formally  abandoned  on  an  outer  ledge  of  the 
Little  Wolverines.  All  that  fortnight  the 
village  had  tossed  in  a  delirium  of  happenings. 
Strangers  had  walked  the  streets.  Every  day 
brought  more  events  than  talk  could  keep 
pace  with.  Even  cynical  Mr.  Laurel  agreed 
that  such  a  winter  had  not  been  known  since 
the  Lord  Ashburton  went  ashore  in  The 
Gale;  even  now  mysteries  remained,  enough 
for   years   of   argument;   and   factions   still 


286  BEACHED   KEELS 

discussed  whether  the  Amirald  had  been 
wrecked  for  the  insurance.  The  company  — 
not  without  suspicion  —  had  paid  it,  and  had 
sold  at  auction,  on  the  underwriters'  account, 
both  the  brigantine  and  her  cargo  of  phos- 
phate. Bids  had  been  few  and  low.  An  old 
man  and  his  money,  the  village  agreed,  were 
soon  parted;  but  Captain  Christy  thought 
otherwise. 

"  Joyce,"  he  had  declared  solemnly,  "  it 's  a 
godsend.  It 's  a  godsend,  girl.  D'  ye  mind,  I 
told  ye  I  had  wha  'd-ye-call-ems  —  prognos- 
ticates —  in  my  bones,  ye  know  —  that  some- 
how I  'd  git  another  ship."  He  chuckled, 
then  laughed  as  heartily  as  a  boy.  "When  I 
see  'em  keep  lights  out  so,  I  knowed  what 
their  game  was!  Pack  o'  rascals!  —  Well, 
Joyce,  the'  won't  be  no  more  such  sea-lawyer 
work  aboard  o'  her  now!" 

His  ready  laughter,  the  free  flow  of  his  talk, 
his  buoyant  stride  and  shining  countenance, 
seemed  to  the  girl  another  marvel  of  the 
returning  spring.  It  was  as  when  a  frozen 
brook,  at  some  final  touch  of  the  thaw,  moves 
downward,    crashes,    leaps    into   full-bodied 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  287 

torrent.  Happiness  mounted  within  him  like 
sap  in  a  giant  maple. 

Often  at  breakfast  he  put  down  his  cup 
untouched,  to  explain  in  a  tone  of  wondering 
delight :  — 

"Ye  know,  to  be  real  downright  honest,  I 
suspicioned  't  was  all  over,  and  —  and  here 
't  is  jes'  beginnin',  eh,  Joyce  ^  " 

Or,  as  she  prepared  their  supper  in  the  little 
savory  kitchen,  he  came  in,  humming,  from 
the  workshop,  his  eyes  alight,  his  fingers 
tarred,  a  curly  shaving  of  clean  pine  caught 
in  his  beard. 

"Well,  here  goes  to  wash  up!"  he  an- 
nounced, as  though  that  were  an  ecstasy. 
And  later,  sitting  by  the  stove,  he  might  break 
out  with:  "Yes,  sir!  I  'm  good  for  ten  more 
years'  hard  work  easily  —  easily!" 

Meantime  the  crumbling  wharf  and  the 
deck  of  the  Amirald  became  a  littered  meet- 
ing-place, where  the  captain,  Zwinglius,  and 
Bunty  directed  all  their  able-bodied  friends  in 
a  labor  of  love.  At  first  a  joke,  the  repairs 
engrossed  the  village.  Even  Mrs.  Gilder- 
sleeve's  summer  boarder,  a  mouse-like  little 


288  BEACHED  KEELS 

man,  said  to  be  a  musician  somewhere  in  the 
world  of  cities,  came  to  lounge  in  sunny 
corners.  With  meek  and  sensible  questions, 
he  slowly  won  friendship  of  the  captain,  and 
so  of  the  captain's  Joyce.  And  friendships 
had  been  rare  with  this  tired  stranger. 

The  Northern  summer  had  sped  away, 
before  Captain  Christy  pronounced  the  Amir- 
ald  fit  for  sea.  He  had  changed  her  rig  to 
fore-and-aft:  "for,"  he  said,  *'I  can't  carry 
no  crew  to  be  squarin'  yards  all  day  long." 
On  her  trial  sail  as  a  schooner  she  behaved 
handsomely  in  the  bay.  Her  foresail,  it  is 
true,  provoked  smiles ;  for  —  as  the  captain 
had  stubbornly  kept  both  spar  and  shroud  — 
the  baby  square  of  white  canvas  reached  only 
to  the  original  foretop.  The  gap  surprised 
one,  as  though  the  vessel  had  lost  a  front 
tooth. 

"Diaper  on  a  broomstick!"  jeered  Master 
Kibben,  at  a  safe  range.    "  Jigger  on  a  yawl ! " 

"Ketches  wind,  anyway,"  observed  the 
captain,  ignoring.  "Big  enough  to  keep  me 
and  Zing  busy.  She  's  took  nigh  all  my  money 
as  't  is.     O'  course,"  he  added  regretfully. 


CAPTAIN   CHRISTY  289 

"  she  ain't  up  to  my  own  —  the  old  schooner. 
Else  I  'd  swap  back  with  Follansbee." 

Having  dispatched  his  letter  to  Wood  and 
Guthrie,  he  hardly  ate  or  slept  for  impa- 
tience. 

"You  and  Zwinglius  Turner,"  Joyce  chided 
him,  "are  bad  as  children  before  Christmas. 
Now  finish  breakfast.     Letters  can  wait." 

At  last  the  answer  came,  and  the  captain 
was  singing  as  he  brought  it  home.  A  cargo 
ready  in  ten  days,  promised  the  firm;  they 
wrote  kindly,  offered  their  old  friend  terms 
better  than  he  had  hoped.  Laughing,  plan- 
ning like  a  boy  for  his  first  voyage,  the  captain 
packed  his  old  canvas  bag.  His  deep  chant 
filled  the   house:  — 

"  *As  they  was  walkin'  on  the  green, 
Bow  down,  bow  down. 
As  they  was  walkin*  on  the  green, 
The  bow  is  bent  to  me. 
As  they  was  walkin'  on  the  green 
To  see  their  father's  ships  come  in.*  .  .  . 

"  Joyce,  there 's  mittens  you  wanted  to 
mend  —  By  gorry,  don't  seem  real,  does  it  ? 
No,  sir,  like  a  dream:  — 


290  BEACHED  KEELS 

"  *  Oho,  prove  truey  prove  true. 
My  love,  prove  true  to  me.*  " 

The  squealing  wheel  of  Zwinglius  Turner's 
barrow,  piercing  the  town  as  he  trundled  the 
last  supplies  to  the  wharf,  made  music  to  the 
captain.  And  then,  suddenly,  an  unexpected 
hand  rent  the  whole  fabric  of  his  joy. 

He  stood  one  morning  beneath  a  naked 
balm-o'-gilead  on  a  knoll,  overlooking  the 
ruddy,  sun-bright  sands,  the  stilted  wharves, 
the  patched  but  shapely  body  of  the  Amirald. 
On  the  brown-spattered  leaves  a  footstep 
crackled,  and  beside  him  halted  the  trim, 
prosperous  little  figure  of  the  Gildersleeves' 
lodger. 

"Good-morning,  captain,"  he  saluted. 
"  Mr.  —  ah  —  Bunty  —  tells  me  that  he  's 
going  with  you  this  voyage." 

"That's  right,"  replied  Captain  Christy. 
"Along  for  comp'ny.  Talks  real  clever. 
Help,  too  —  fust-class  seaman,  Bunty  is." 

They  chatted  of  indifferent  matters. 

"You  know,  captain,"  began  the  stranger 
at  last,  rather  shyly,  "  I  '11  be  going  back  to 
town  myself  soon,  worse  luck.    You  two  have 


CAPTAIN   CHRISTY  291 

been  kind  to  me.  Yes,  you  have,"  he  insisted 
quickly:  "most  people  find  me  too  crotchety 
to  bother  with.  You  've  both  —  been  strongly 
in  my  thoughts  of  late.  I  've  grown  very 
fond  of  that  child."  He  gave  a  quiet  laugh. 
"Yes,  captain,  if  I  were  young  and  a  bachelor, 
it 's  probable  I  'd  have  tried  to  rob  you  of  her 
by  now.  At  least,"  he  added  soberly,  "I 
think  I  desire  her  happiness  almost  as  much 
as  you.  Almost,  captain.  —  Do  you  know, 
she  's  a  rarity." 

Captain  Christy  appeared  doubtful  of  this 
term. 

"  She  's  a  good  nice  girl,"  he  amended 
heartily. 

"By  Jove  she  is  !  "  agreed  the  other.  "But 
I  meant  —  another  aspect."  He  twisted  the 
point  of  his  gray  beard,  then  fluttered  the 
dead  leaves  with  his  cane,  as  though  they  hid 
the  right  words  for  his  purpose.  "  She  's 
that,  and  more  —  We  've  all  three  talked 
together  a  good  bit  this  summer,  and  you 
remember  I  gave  her  a  few  lessons  —  No,  no ! 
a  pleasure,  I  can  tell  you !  —  It 's  made  me 
think  about  her  future.    Now  this  town :  I  'm 


292  BEACHED   KEELS 

very  fond  of  it,  but" —  he  glanced  up  quizzi- 
cally —  "  how  about  opportunities  ?  " 

The  vista  of  gray,  pointed  gables,  the  street, 
vacant  but  for  the  rusty  Newfoundland 
perennially  asleep  on  the  pink  sand,  stretched 
away  dead  and  silent  toward  the  taut  skyline 
of  the  bay. 

*  Opportoonities  ain't  blockin'  traffic  there, 
are  they  ?  "  drawled  the  captain. 

"I  shouldn't  say  all  this,"  continued  the 
musician,  "to  a  man  of  your  —  your  active 
service  in  real  life  —  except  that  I  know  a 
very  little  about  one  subject.  That  girl,  as 
they  say,  has  music  in  her.    You  knew  that  ?  " 

"She  plays  real  lively,  my  opinion,"  ven- 
tured Captain  Christy. 

"More  than  that,"  the  other  assented. 
"When  you  think  of  that  old  chest  of  whis- 
tles"—  With  his  ferule  he  transfixed  a  leaf, 
twirled  it,  studied  it,  then  looked  the  captain 
in  the  eye.  "She  's  a  wonder!"  he  declared 
fervently.  "Mind,  I  don't  say  she'll  be  a 
great  player,  and  that  nonsense,  —  but  a  good 
one.  She  has  —  the  gift.  I  'm  not  an  en- 
thusiastic man,  you  know  —  less  than  ever. 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  293 

There  are  so  many  thousand  fools,  masculine, 
feminine,  but  mostly  neuter,  all  busy  learning 
the  cant,  the  mechanics,  the  wise  chatter  — 
faugh!  when  they  can't  do  a  useful  hand's 
turn  in  life,  or  even  read  and  write  the  English 
language,  or  think  beyond  their  Selves  — 
To  get  away  down  here,  it 's  like  emptying 
my  pockets,  airing  the  room,  brushing  my 
clothes  of  'em!  —  But  Joyce  is  real,  and  has 
that  rare  thing,  a  Mind.  It  will  take  patience, 
hard  work,  study,  breaking  in  —  You  see, 
she  's  in  the  rough,  like  —  like  " — 

"A  barnyard  colt,"  suggested  the  captain, 
all  serious  attention. 

"Ye-es,"  laughed  the  musician.  "Some- 
thing not  quite  so  shaggy.  I  '11  try  to  be 
plainer.  She  has  the  '  heart  that  watches  and 
receives,'  that 's  certain :  lacks  only  the  chance. 
I  've  said  nothing  to  her,  don't  know  what 
means  may  be  at  her  disposal.  But  if  she 
could  have  one  year  in  the  city,  there 's  start 
enough.  With  her  quickness,  we  'd  go  far. 
I  've  stopped  taking  pupils :  all  the  more 
time  for  her.  Of  course,  my  reward  would  be 
the  fun  itself,  the  pride,  seeing  the  girl  forge 


294  BEACHED   KEELS 

ahead,  shoot  up  —  by  Jove!"  —  he  speared 
the  ground  recklessly,  —  "shoot  up  into  a 
constellation!" 

"Thank  ye,  sir,"  mumbled  the  captain. 
His  uncertain  fingers  combed  at  the  white 
beard;  his  eyes  contracted,  musing,  among 
the  kindly  wrinkles  that  told  of  distant  things 
long  watched.     "You're  master  gen'rous." 

"After  the  first  year,  —  well,  for  example, 
I  'm  trustee  and  Musical  Grandpa  to  a  school; 
teaching  kiddies  there,  she  could  turn  a 
handsome  penny.  What  do  you  think?" 
Forgetting  his  mouse-like  ways,  eager  with 
his  project,  the  little  man  unfolded  it  as  they 
walked  homeward. 

In  the  workshop,  now  almost  bare,  Zwing- 
lius  stooped  about,  despoiling  another  barrow- 
load. 

"Zing!"  the  captain,  entering,  exploded 
wrathfuUy.  "Come  here!  Hit  me  a  hand- 
some kick,  will  ye  ?  H'ist  me  one  good  and 
solid!  Lambaste  my  jacket!"  The  mate 
stared.  "I  'm  a  selfish  old  —  old  —  old  — 
customer!  Always  thinkin'  o'  Jack  Christy 
fust  and  foremost.     Nothin'  else,  by  James 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  295 

Rice!"  He  stood  regarding  Zwinglius,  like 
an  aged  schoolboy,  disgraced,  dogged,  angry; 
then  swung  muttering  into  the  kitchen. 

"Hello,  Joyce,"  he  said  gently.  The  girl, 
kneeling  before  her  oven,  turned  with  a 
smile.  His  scrutiny  was  strange,  as  though  he 
saw  in  her  face  some  quality  never  seen  there 
before. 

He  was  silent  at  dinner;  through  the 
afternoon  paced  the  floor,  sat  figuring  on 
a  slate,  with  the  air  of  a  gloomy,  patient 
dunce;  but  in  the  yellow  glow  of  the  sup- 
per table  blossomed  out  so  cheerfully  with 
chuckles,  laughter,  far-fetched  jokes,  that 
Joyce's  brown  eyes  were  wide  and  puz- 
zled. 

The  mingled  emotions  of  that  evening  she 
was  not  soon  to  forget.  As  she  sat  alone  by 
the  lamp,  the  captain  —  whose  heavy  steps 
had  creaked  across  the  room  above  —  came 
slowly  downstairs,  and  paused  in  the  doorway, 
smiling,  with  a  book  in  his  hand.  His  voice 
rang  oddly. 

**  Joyce,  I  've  got  something  to  give  ye,  and 
somethin'  I  want  to  say." 


296  BEACHED   KEELS 

To  the  apprehension  in  her  look  he 
answered  quickly. 

"It 's  good  noos.  I  ben  a  thoughtless  old 
coot,  Joyce ;  but  after  this  I  '11  do  better  by  ye. 
Ye  know,  before  buyin'  the  Amirald,  I  laid 
the  future  all  out,  as  I  thought.  I  did  n't,  not 
half;  but  I  figgered  I  had.  Well,  I  wrote  Her, 
Up  the  Line,  and  says,  'bout  like  this :  *  If  you 
cal'late  to  come  back  some  time,  as  I  hope, 
write  me,  and  I  won't  buy  this  brigantine.' 
'Bout  like  that.    Well,  she  never  answered." 

The  tall  clock,  ticking  heavily,  marked  the 
stillness  of  the  room. 

"  She  never  answered.  That  —  kind  o'  — 
set  me  loose  to  buy,  'cause  ye  see,  I  felt  I 
had  n't  a  fam'ly  no  more.  But" —  he  halted 
anxiously. 

"But  you  have!"  cried  the  girl,  springing 
up.  She  clasped  the  big,  bent  shoulders, 
hugged  him.  "You  have,  haven't  you? 
You  have.  Father  Captain!" 

His  free  hand  clumsily  patted  her.  "All 
right,  then,"  he  growled,  in  great  relief.  His 
old,  familiar  manner  returned.  "Now  we 
can  set  down  and  talk." 


CAPTAIN  CHRISTY  297 

The  girl  perched  on  his  elbow-chair,  the 
white  head  and  the  brown  tousled  together. 

*'  So  I  want  ye  to  hev  this.  I  'd  saved  it 
for  her,  waitin'  for  her  to  grow  up,  —  like 
you." 

The  proffered  book,  a  little  black  Bible, 
opened  at  the  fly-leaf.  Above  a  date  forty 
years  old,  they  read,  in  the  captain's  crabbed 
antique  hand:  — 

For  Eunice  Christy 

from  her  loving  father. 

*  *  Man  cannot  live 
by  bread  alone.'*    Matt,  iv,  4. 

**I  would  have  you  wise 
unto  that  which  is  good,  and 
simple  concerning  evil.' '  Ro- 
mans xvi,  19. 

"Oh,  Father  Captain,"  faltered  the  girl, 
between  long  silences.  She  stroked  the  hard 
old  hands,  corded  with  veins,  tattooed  with 
the  blue  quincunx.  "  I  '11  feel  better  about 
your  going  away,  now  you  've  left  me  this." 

"No,  girl,"  he  said  gravely.  "Ye  don't 
understand.  This  goes  with  ye,  to  steer  by 
when  you  're  famous,  and  a  great  lady,  and 
all." 


298  BEACHED  KEELS 

Laboriously  he  revealed  the  musician's 
plan.  After  the  jBrst  shock,  the  leap  of  her 
unbreathed  ambition,  she  listened  motionless, 
pale,  large-eyed,  as  in  a  dream. 

"  So,  ye  see,  the  cargo  's  Nova  Scoshy  coal 
for  Noobryport.  You  '11  sail  that  fur  with  me, 
and  take  the  cars  from  there."  He  touched 
the  book  in  her  lap.  "Now  we  've  adopted 
each  other,  I  can  pay  the  fust  year  or  so." 

Joyce  started  again. 

"How.^"  she  asked,  with  vague  mis- 
giving. 

"  Oh,  I  '11  git  the  money,  dear,"  he  an- 
swered, gay  and  elusive. 

"But  how.^"  she  insisted. 

"Why,  I  can  sell  the  vessel  handy,  up  in 
those  parts,  at  a  profit,  too." 

Easy,  tremendous,  untimely,  the  sacrifice 
overbore  her:  as  when  a  friend,  laughing, 
flushed,  his  cheer  cut  short,  falls  beside  his 
friend  in  the  moment  of  victory.  Here,  like  a 
broken  trifle,  her  old  hero  cast  away  his  final 
dream  and  happiness. 

"  Oh,  captain,"  she  cried,  choking,  between 
tears  and  feeble  laughter.      "  Oh,  you  —  I 


CAPTAIN   CHRISTY  299 

could  n't !  I  could  n't !  Don't  you  see  —  you 
never  asked  —  I  have  plenty  for  the  first  year 
myself  —  more  than  four  hundred  dollars 
that  I  've  saved.  You  old  angel !  No,  I  won't 
listen;  it 's  wrong,   wicked." 

"No,  Joyce,"  objected  the  captain  sturdily; 
"the  world  's  for  the  young,  ye  know." 

"It  isn't,  either!"  she  protested,  shaking 
him.  "  It 's  for  all  kinds,  and  you  're  the  best 
in  it!    Now  listen,  you  dear  old  goose."  .  .  . 

It  was  a  long  combat;  but  happy,  resolute 
youth,  guided  by  woman's  wit,  at  last  con- 
quered. "  So,"  she  concluded,  "  we  can  both 
be  independent.  And  whether  I  fail  or  go 
ahead,  I  '11  come  home  when  you  —  when 
you  've  had  voyages  enough.  So  we  can  each 
have  our  wish,  father." 

"Why  —  I  guess  —  you  're  right!"  de- 
clared the  captain.  "So  we  can!"  Trans- 
figured, he  swung  her  in  his  arms,  high  to  the 
crossbeams  of  the  ceiling.  "Both  of  us! 
Hooray!" 

And  Zwinglius,  to  whom  this  world  was 
never  clear,  entered  upon  a  mad  scene  of 
double  jigs  and  capers  before  the  fire. 


300  CAPTAIN   CHRISTY 

On  a  clear  September  evening  the  Amirald 
put  out  to  sea,  before  a  dying  wind  that  veered 
among  the  black  fir  islands.  Bunty  and 
Zwinglius  stood  amidships,  watching  the 
infant  endeavors  of  the  new  foresail.  By 
the  taflrail  sat  Joyce,  bareheaded,  her  hair 
darkly  ruddy  in  the  level  glow  of  sunset  waves, 
against  which  the  captain,  a  giant  silhouette, 
revolved  a  quick  pattern  of  radiating  spokes. 
Down  the  vastness  of  the  sky  astern  thin  arcs 
of  cloud,  white  overhead,  pearl,  rose,  and 
saffron  toward  the  west,  curved  from  the 
zenith  like  frail  ribs  of  an  infinite  vaulted  aisle 
spanning  sea  and  land. 

"Wind  to-morrer,  likely."  The  captain 
turned  his  head,  and  looked  down  the  enor- 
mous nave  toward  the  sinking  glory.  "Might 
be  his  arch,  —  your  sailor  man's.  '  All  experi- 
ence,' eh,  Joyce  ?  Well,  we  're  goin'  through 
it  together." 

And  to  them,  as  to  Ulysses,  the  deep  called 
round  with  many  voices  of  the  past  and  the 
future. 


THE  PENOBSCOT  MAN 

By  FANNIE  HARDY  ECKSTORM 


"In  various  exciting  experiences  in  the  logging 
season,  which  are  depicted  with  a  graphic  pen,  these 
men  of  Maine  are  shown  to  display  a  type  of  con- 
stancy to  the  immediate  duty  before  them,  and  a 
sturdy  honor  which  is  altogether  admirable." 

Philadelphia  Ledger. 

'*  It  is  seldom  that  a  book  presenting  so  much  of  the 
strength  and  simplicity  of  rough  manhood  comes  be- 
fore the  reader.    It  is  true  to  the  core;  not  mere 

fiction,  but  well  worth  while." 

Brooklyn  Eagle, 


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CAP'N  SIMEON'S  STORE 

By  GEORGE  S.  WASSON 


THESE  stories  of  the  elder  generation  of  deep- 
sea  fishermen  are  told  in  their  real  dialect. 
The  title  is  taken  from  the  favorite  haunt  of  the  an- 
cient sea-captains,  who  sit  around  "Cap'n  Simeon's" 
hospitable  fire  and  spin  their  yarns  of  life  and  death 
on  the  great  deep. 

"It  is  seldom  that  one  comes  upon  a  collection  of 
tales  that  so  vividly  echoes  the  tone  and  reflects  the 
colors  of  these  coastwise  folk.  The  winds  of  the  sea 
blow  through  it."  Brooklyn  Eagle, 

With  frontispiece  by  Marcia  O.  Woodbury 

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THE 

LOG  OF  A  SEA  ANGLER 

By  CHARLES  F.  HOLDER 

"The  greatest  collection  of  fish  stories  that  ever 
came  to  delight  us.'*  —  New  York  Times, 
"The  sportsman  will  revel  in  this  book  of  sunshine, 
fresh  breezes,  salty  spray,  and  buoyant  open-air  life. 
It  is  a  delightful  chronicle  of  adventure  that  will 
interest  all  who  dip  into  its  pages.  Even  those  for 
whom  rod  and  reel  and  spear  have  no  potent  spell 
will  feel  the  attraction  of  the  very  able  pen  most 
picturesquely  wielded  by  this  ardent  sportsman."  — 

New  York  Mail, 
"Mr.  Holder  makes  his  catches  positively  thrilling  in 
their  recital."  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

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